


hold on to your heart

by sinistea



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Consensual Somnophilia, Dream Sex, Incest, Light dom/sub undertones, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Painplay, Multi, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Sex Toys, Slight Canon Divergence, eventual thanzag and threesome when I feel like it don't take my word for it, fictional narcotics (don't try this at home), kink negotiation (mostly implied), mortal customs what are those, no beta we die like mortals, simulated breathplay (not actual choking), tall hypnos agenda, the eye mask stays on during sex, they are all submissive bottoms who have to top sometimes okay throws up a peace sign
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28213524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistea/pseuds/sinistea
Summary: PLEASE READ THE TAGS CAREFULLY!A look at how certain character dynamics and storylines might be altered by Hypnos being very much in love with two people at the same time (and having his affections reciprocated by both). Chapters can be read as one-shots if you're just here for smut.
Relationships: Hypnos/Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Hypnos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- Just to be safe, spoilers for the entire game, including the epilogue and past the true ending. Any liberties that were taken or mistakes that were made are mine. Here is a reminder to **please, please heed the tags** and remain aware that you have the agency to stop reading and leave at any point you find yourself feeling uncomfortable. 
> 
> \- If you’re still here, the endgame is mostly canon-compliant (I tried), except Hypnos won't end up _settling_ into his role as House of Hades door-greeter. Consider this a minor fix-it. I will also be upfront and say that I plan to go very light on the thanzag, don't be disappointed that the other pairings get a lot more love. 
> 
> additional content warnings not in tags:  
> descriptions of gore, canon-typical callous attitudes towards death and dying, some jealousy, themes that skew towards obsessive/possessive love (nothing unresolved or dysfunctional, I think)

Gods do not sleep the way mortals do. 

_“Hey, uh, Hypnos? Can I ask a favour of you, as the heir of my Lord Father Hades?”_

_“I don't know!_ Can _you?”_

The respective physiologies of gods and other immortal beings do not necessitate sleep. The choice to indulge in the act is exercised at one's whims; they sleep whenever they wish, if they sleep at all. 

It is altogether another matter when they are _spelled_ to sleep. 

_They are lulled into slumber, powerless to resist. The spell rocks against them. Oscillating, eroding consciousness. Like the ocean's tides, slow and certain. Inevitable. The occupants of the House shall be treated with dignity. Accomplice in mischief though he may be, Hypnos has no wish to humiliate his employer and his colleagues. With a feather-like touch, he has applied himself to the task. The incantations of Sleep are discreet, though not without a certain flair. A suggestion of languor begins to drift through the halls, brushing against one industrious mind after another._

_Dusa’s nest of hair quietens just before she does. The snakes cease their hissing, fall limp against her head. Her dusting, tireless as always, appears impervious to the spell—until her cheerful tunes sound far too loud in contrast to the oncoming wave. Soon, weariness engulfs her senses. She can be spared from her anxiety. For once, cleaning can wait._

_Orpheus goes like a flame guttering in the wind, fading in and out of awareness. Then, he stops fighting it and curls up in his seat, spindly arms wrapped around his lyre. Without his muse, not a chord has been plucked in these halls. His empty gaze is a clear pool in the hollow of his loss, and sleep momentarily frees him from his silent anguish._

_Achilles leans heavily on his spear for support. He is faintly surprised to have been reacquainted with that mortal enemy: fatigue. He would have fought it, once upon a time. But the heart of his ferocity is with him no longer. Besides, dreams had sometimes been kind to him. With a warrior's grace, he lowers himself into a crouch, then stretches out on his side with his head pillowed in his arms. He blankets his fading consciousness with memories of Patroclus beside him, taking up the next shift while he rests for the night._

_Thanatos is not present. Neither is Nyx._

_Two of Cerberus' three heads are already snoozing. The head on the right lets out a soft whine, fearful and suspicious. But the need to alert the House of something amiss has begun to diminish in urgency. Soon, all three snouts are neatly laid upon the hound's massive paws._

_At his desk, Lord Hades regards his towering stacks of parchmentwork with a tinge of despair. He stifles a cavernous yawn, which nonetheless escapes from between his fingers, carrying a deep, rumbling resonance. Shades sink into oblivion around him, folding over and carpeting the floor with their crumpled, translucent forms. The god of the dead rises from his throne, wading trance-like through the masses of slumbering spirits as though a line extends from his empty bed and is reeling him in. He has scarce enough time to arrange himself on the sheets before torpor stills his limbs and draws his eyes shut, smoothens the ravine between his brows._

_Hades sleeps._

And Sleep Incarnate himself sleeps. The only one among the gods for whom waking is an obligation. Though who is to say that he truly lies unconscious whilst he slumbers? Hypnos alone steps easily into the landscapes of others' dreams, where he is at his most lucid. 

_Zagreus is woken by a long-fingered hand making passes over his face. Beyond those repeated motions, Hypnos grins at him. The surroundings quiver strangely, and Zagreus realises that he has only been made conscious, with yet to be roused from sleep._

_Hypnos speaks. “I've done what you asked me to, your Highness! Now go do your thing. Good luck with whatever you're doing!”_

_Then, Zagreus wakes up in his own bed, where he'd last laid down in anticipation of Hypnos' spell. He rises from his sheets, damp with nervous sweat. Pads down the long corridor which separates his chambers from the east hall, and steals across the tiles to his father's immense desk. There, he finds a letter written in an unfamiliar hand. As he reads the words, a voice echoes in his head, revealing to him the truth about his parentage. He wants to distrust it, yet the tone of finality only ascertains the hunch he's had about himself the whole time. He's never belonged here. And Nyx, whom he thought had been away all this while, confirms it with little more than sympathy for him, in spite of her compassion._

_The lie falls apart, but it is not a nightmare from which he can wake._

—

Of course they get caught. 

A brief inquiry into Zagreus' involvement is held at the desk of Lord Hades. There is no need to question whether Hypnos has played a role in this debacle. Thanatos hovers next to Hypnos. He has a hand wrapped around his brother's wrist and is digging his nails into Hypnos' skin so that the latter will not fall asleep. Nyx stands behind the god of the dead, ready to step in and insist that her children be granted clemency. Zagreus is interrogated and berated, blamed for misusing his title. _A bad influence, as usual. Utterly incorrigible. Hopeless._ But something has changed. The Son of Hades has a hardened look about his mismatched eyes. He will not rest, now. And neither will he stay.

* * *

Time bends and stretches in the Underworld—minutes and seconds elastic, daytime and evening as experienced by mortals rendered incomprehensible. Time is a mere formality; such concepts are senseless in a realm which receives no light from the celestial bodies. 

Hypnos knows this well. At unpredictable intervals, a string of numbers sears itself upon his parchment in a flash of golden light. The numbers mark the time that has elapsed between errant Zagreus' latest escape attempt and his subsequent demise. Lord Hades has charged Hypnos with keeping _these_ records filed away and organised. It's a small addition to his inexhaustible list of duties, no trouble at all for one with eternity to get on with it. 

It's just… There is only so much that Hypnos can bear witness to, only so many times he can watch the same person emerge from the Styx and sign him in before beginning to wonder—what drives the Prince of Hades to court the perils of their hellish domain? Most beings which enter the House do so only once. They check in for their eternal stay, and they never leave. A returning guest—a god, at that—represents an anomaly. Zagreus' deaths are varied, none of them pretty. Hypnos can only imagine the sort of battered states his body ends up in right before the river takes him. Burned, skewered, crushed, dismembered… 

He avoids dwelling on how all these terrible ends are tributaries which lead back to the same accursed source—that the harmless prank he'd played at Zagreus' request turned out to be a catalyst of some sort. Zagreus has never admitted as much, and Hypnos is used to keeping secrets, owed to a deficit of amicable company more than to the etiquette of unspoken oaths. 

The documentation grows. Neat folders at first, then stuffing drawers full to bursting. Zagreus has done battle with the best of the Underworld's denizens, slain undying hordes of wretched ones, dueled with _the Bull of Minos!_ He's clashed with foes that Hypnos would never ever dream of letting his own physical form collide against. Not in combat, at least. (Sleep incarnate would sooner pull a soporific veil over any adversary than fight them head-on.) As much as flashy weaponry and violent death make for an exciting spectator sport, Hypnos tends towards the philosophy of the Lady Aphrodite in his own affairs. Make love, not war. Something like that. 

Zagreus dies, and dies again. 

Within the interior of the House, a sequence of developments begins to unfold. It's rumoured that the renovations have been commissioned by Zagreus. Lord Hades grumbles and makes snide remarks, though Hypnos has seen him tossing the spherical red plaything to the three-headed hound while his heir is out. The interior decorating projects start up and reach completion in tandem with Zagreus' erratic comings and goings. Naturally, the area leading up from the Pool of Styx has not been spared from the renovation efforts. 

Hypnos is intrigued, and very nosy. He interrogates the contractor for information, but the tall shade in the hard hat only shakes their head, maintaining silence. 

One time, the workers cart in piles of mortal remains and shovel them out along the corridor, leaving them there in unsophisticated heaps. They're mostly fresh human skulls in volume, gods only know from which battlefield they'd been procured. Thanatos in particular _might_ have an inkling, but Death Incarnate has buried himself far too deep in his responsibilities these days to entertain his brother's chatter. And he wouldn't be the last being to find Hypnos' concerns frivolous. The hollow stares of the skulls are unnerving. Those empty eye sockets are far more menacing than the ghoulish, resigned gazes Hypnos is used to receiving from the shades. At first, he resolves to tolerate their presence. Then, he notices scraps of desiccated flesh still stuck to the bones, inciting a dire need to have a word with Zagreus about the new display. At the very least, the contractor and their staff could have cleaned up the raw materials before laying them out…! 

_There it is!_

The pool froths and bubbles briefly as the Styx retrieves the prince from unknowable depths and deposits him at the steps. For a moment, Zagreus seems disheartened, almost forlorn. His hair is plastered to his head by the viscous fluid of the Styx. The fiery laurel wreath flickers wanly, its leaves dull and hanging limp at his temples. Zagreus' soft, disgruntled _ugh_ says it all. 

He shudders, shakes his head. Bits of gore are sent flying, disappearing as soon as they hit a solid surface. Shoulders squared, Zagreus strides in the direction of Hades' imposing seat. As he walks, moisture is leached from his garments, wicked away from his skin. Damp locks of hair reshape themselves into familiar spikes. The laurels spring back to life. 

Selected enchantments have been placed within the House of Hades, purposed to ensure that Zagreus shall leave few traces of his rebellion in his wake. He wouldn't get far while drenched in Styx even if he'd wanted to. Aside from his commissions with the contractor, there isn't much that attests to his repeated attempts, save the streak of red on the very edge of this privileged entrance. The infernal heat from his soles have long branded the waters of the Styx into porous tile, daubing with careless artistry a glorious (and permanent) stain that serves as a reminder, to his father most of all, that he is never going to quit. 

“Uh! Hey!” Hypnos croaks out at the passing figure, voice scratchy from his recent slumber. “You got a second to spare, there? But first! _So you got caught off guard by a soul catcher, did you? Those nasty butterfly mimics sure can do a number on you when Hermes doesn't have a blessing to spare! Spiteful souls make for spiteful swarms! Maybe don't dash right into them next time!_ Whew.” He places a hand upon his chest, then snaps his quill out of thin air into his hand. “Now that _that's_ out of the way—” 

Hypnos stops, keenly aware of Zagreus' low chuckle. It's pleasant and rumbling, sincere and somehow _wistful_. There always seems to be a tiny nest inside of Hypnos' diaphragm for it, as though his very innards wish to move aside to shelter the sound behind his ribs. If only it were possible to carry around echoes of Zagreus' laughter! It's a sound that dispels drowsiness and makes one attentive, sensitive to subtle shifts in the air. The kind to elicit an innocent wonder, the same insensible shedding of all caution that causes mortal children to do things like stick their fingers into the dying cookfire, having been tempted to wrap greedy hands around the glowing embers. 

_Where's all this darn… silly affection… fuzzy sentimentality towards Lord Hades' heir even coming from?!_

Hypnos is staring. 

_Curse Zagreus and his perfect collarbones!_

Zagreus grins, oblivious to the effect he's having on the other chthonic deity. It's rare enough that Hypnos has actually stopped talking, and Zagreus will savour every bit of amusement he derives from it. “You said there was something else?” _He's in a good mood, now, tsch._

“The skulls!” Hypnos squeaks, indignant. He gestures at the closest pile, posed scant inches from his bare feet. “While I appreciate your generous contributions, and insist that I am not in the _least_ squeamish about all things Death, obviously—” His tone grows less plaintive. “These aren't exactly _pleasing_ , you know?”

Zagreus cocks an eyebrow. “You're saying you can't believe I spent my hard-won jewels on this.”

“Yes! _No!_ ” The parchment flies from Hypnos' hand and comes to rest hovering at his shoulder, quivering. It's bristling at Zagreus, a mirror of its owner. “The shades are terrified, and perturbed! Those skulls are doing a brilliant job! I was just… thinking of something more… stylised? Or tastefully macabre? Maybe some delightful sculpted scenes of torture in relief?” A hopeful shrug. 

“ _Ohhh._ ” Zagreus' eyes go wide, a look of understanding finally dawning upon his face. “Ugh. I should have thought of that. You're Sleep, personified, after all. These skulls are more, I don't know, threats. Trophies of war. Ares' kind of thing. They _are_ pretty hideous to look at. I see such things all the time in Asphodel, I suppose I got used to them.” Before Hypnos can react, Zagreus is pressing a bottle of nectar into his hands, leaning in close to shield the illicit bottle from Hades' line of sight. “An apology, all right? I should have been more thoughtful.” 

Hypnos' cheeks burn. Zagreus smells like sweet incense and overheated metal. 

Sleep Incarnate tucks the bottle away, shoving it deep into his quilted cloak. 

Then, Zagreus is rushing off towards the intersection of the west hall. Fragments of his murmured conversation with Achilles continue to remain a total mystery. The significance of their meetings is obscured by Hypnos' adherence to his station, and Achilles' to his own. Hypnos does wonder what it would be like, to be privileged with the rapt attention and respect of the prince. 

_Ah, well!_ He supposes that, like every other matter in the House, it has to be earned. Achilles offers his tutelage. What does Hypnos have to offer a prince? He'd acquiesced to Zagreus' request for his services, once. _And look where that's gotten us both, huh!_

When Hypnos next returns from his break, Zagreus is nowhere to be seen. The skulls are gone from the corridor, replaced by fresh asphodel petals. What's more, the cream-ivory blossoms billow upwards from the vicinity of the pool, raining down upon the gathered shades, never ceasing their spiralling journey up through the currents of air, guided and gentled and then abandoned to the whims of the Fates. 

Heh. Kind of like Zagreus, actually. 

Hypnos swats at the petals, wishing he'd company beyond the morose dead and the reverberations of Hades' booming voice.

—

Zagreus dies (again and again), and Hypnos greets him at the pool whenever he is afforded the chance. 

There are no words for what Zagreus puts himself through. No words of consolation could possibly be enough to soothe certain horrors. In any case, Zagreus doesn't seem the type to appreciate empty platitudes. 

Hypnos condescends to him instead. 

It had started out as a series of jests. But in truth, between Zagreus and the god of sleep, they seem to have made something of a game out of the whole ridiculous routine. Zagreus doesn't _have_ to stop by to listen, and yet he never fails to check up on Hypnos. He’s been stopping by consistently, ever since the incident with the skulls. And so Hypnos trades condescension and shit-eating grins for eye contact, chances to gaze at Zagreus' weary countenance, stealing these moments of respite from under Lord Hades' nose. 

When he isn't taking naps, Hypnos scribbles his ideas for little quips and monologues along the margins of his record-keeping parchment. He drafts them out with manic fervour and rehearses each new iteration under his breath. Honing them has almost become an obsession, from the delivery right down to the intonation and cadence of each sentence. The borders of his parchment are usually filled with drawings—finely-lined, abstract illustrations of hapless mortals in the throes of death. Now, they compete for room with his scripts. He tries to rope in some of the waiting shades to workshop lines for the more uncommon of Zagreus' adversaries. However, it's impossible all of a sudden to decipher the guttural groans coming from the procession of the dead. Hypnos is pretty sure he can try harder to listen to them in whichever languages or dialects they speak—he does it well enough for his assignments—but he's too darn _impatient_ and bored of the blasted workplace drudgery to concentrate at present. 

Whenever Zagreus returns, Hypnos dispenses his patronising pearls of wisdom in hopes of being rewarded with the prince's reactions. And Zagreus indulges in their farcical performance every single time, gilding this thread which binds them with his outrageous winks, eyerolls, and glimmering slivers of dry laughter. 

The gifts of nectar have not dried up either. They must be getting easier to obtain as Zagreus grows in strength and proficiency at the range of weapons in his armoury. Whispers abound in Zagreus' absence, hinting at a supposed lack of discernment when it comes to gift-giving. He plies everyone with nectar, apparently. He sneaks the stuff to _Cerberus_. Hypnos has seen him place bottles between Cerberus' humongous paws, has overheard his sincere little speeches to the hellhound. _Oh, to be an immense hound of the infernal depths, nosing a muzzle into the prince's broad chest._

The first time Hypnos received a bottle, he'd been flustered and ill-equipped to return the gesture. He’d rummaged about the inside of his mantle, searching its fathomless pockets until he produced the little purse he used to store his obol. It's where he stashes his share of the payment from joint assignments on the surface. Some mortals are fated to go in a dreamless sleep; on occasion, Thanatos requests his brother's assistance to hold the boundaries of said mortals' unconscious minds while he does his work. Hypnos has no need for such coin now, in his present circumstances. And with a fixed withdrawal rate spelled into the purse, his savings should last Zagreus for quite a while. 

But Zagreus keeps coming back despite Hypnos insisting that he's got nothing more to give in return, and so Hypnos starts leaning into it. 

“ _You died_ for me _?” he coos. “So close to home, too! You must've been in a hurry to get back to my side.”_

Zagreus won't take the bait. 

He tells Hypnos, in serious and heartfelt tones, that he has indeed died for his sake. And Hypnos doesn't believe it. The evidence speaks otherwise; Zagreus is consistently pushing into the outer edges of Elysium now, almost at the boundary of the realm where it leads into the Temple of Styx. 

Thus, ironic that Hypnos yearns for the prince's favour, when Zagreus, to all appearances, is preoccupied with buying his. Whether it's bribery in intent or genuine affection, Hypnos cannot say. All the same, it'd be a brazen lie to say that he doesn't enjoy cupping his hands in his lap, basking in the attention as Zagreus deposits the occasional gift into his waiting palms. 

He tries not to commit to memory the drag of Zagreus' calloused fingertips. The bottles, he hoards assiduously, daring not to consume their contents for fear of losing himself to that brief ecstasy. Imbibing would for certain lay bare all that he wants to his own scrutiny. The chthonic gods have no reliance on nectar and ambrosia for their immortality; the substances confer neither lasting benefit nor harm, deemed illicit only by Lord Hades' deep disdain of anything which holds significance in the realm of the Olympians.

Stirrings of malcontent have begun to taint Hypnos' exchanges with Zagreus. At the back of his mind, envious musings have unfurled, fluttering about his conscience like a dark colony of bats. 

Soon, he thinks, he might have to request a whipping from Megaera, or anything equivalent to that in order to serve his penance. He makes half-hearted bids to wheedle his way into an exclusive session with the Fury, and she sees through his distracted mood, rebuffs him, calls him out on his clumsy flirting. Anyway, things have been especially awkward with her since she's started arriving home by Styx almost as often as Zagreus does. 

To obtain the full spectrum of Meg's regard, one must always be absolutely sure of where they stand with her. That in itself might be a feat worthy of a place in Elysium. 

Though… If a certain piece of gossip is true, Zagreus is one who was able to attain such rapport with the Fury. Well, before his escape attempts set _oh so many_ changes into motion and strained the relationship. Still! He's _bedded_ her, even. So the rumours say. Or probably, she's bedded him. Hard to believe the unrepentant offspring of Hades would have ever felt the need to seek out punishment on his days off. Nevertheless, Hypnos muses, It's a promising prospect.

—

A tiresome ache puts down roots in Hypnos' chest, swelling and weighing heavy inside him as though his organs were made of lead. There's a decidedly lustful edge to his longing, too, surging waves of heated desire pooling at his loins, his mouth going dry whenever he so much as dares to imagine the angular path of Zagreus' jawline. Sculptors would describe a face (and body) like that as _chiselled_. If only they knew what Hypnos yearned to do with the work of art. 

_Lick every darn inch of it._

In all honesty, Zagreus is somewhat ordinary, even unimpressive by godly standards. He's on the smaller side for one of royal heritage; Hypnos is sure he's got at least half a cubit of height on the prince. The devastating heroism and gorgeous looks are mere products of Hypnos' unbecoming fantasies… right?

Hypnos manages this troubling new development the only way he knows how—by sleeping on it. 

He falls behind on his assigned tasks, and then he sleeps on those too. He endures his performance appraisals with admirable poise, pleading his case without even slipping off the air of bemusement he wraps around himself like his cloak. Hypnos appears for all the world as though he'd stumbled into his post in the House of Hades by mistake, with no clue how he got there in the first place. (Not far from the truth.) And yet, his easy-going demeanour is not unwelcome here. For all the chastising he receives from the master, Hades seems to have great tolerance for his lackadaisical work approach. 

_Would be nice to make it onto the featured houseservant board once in a while, though._

Only Zagreus' reports remain up-to-date. 

The records of the prince's escapes reveal that his expeditions are getting shorter in tiny increments, with even longer stretches during which the time expended plateaus. So many escape attempts, so many deaths, so many points of contact with the world above the Underworld. Patterns begin to emerge. Victories and setbacks. All of it means nothing to a god for whom weeks may be drowsed away in a matter of blinks, seconds slept into years. Hypnos' strongest tethers to the passing of time are the staff arrivals due to sudden, unscheduled death. Otherwise, he is content to lapse back into sleep until any individual with an aura too intense to ignore approaches him. 

It's taken Zagreus' little jaunts out of the House for Hypnos to notice just how lonely he feels. _Pathetic,_ he berates himself, _how much you've been mooning after him. You think he blushes at you? Cute. It's probably a trick of the ghastly lighting._

In spite of this, he's made _some_ effort to balance the scales. Of late, he devotes more time to conjuring up daydreams than fleeing into dreamless sleep. There's nothing bawdy about the scenes he crafts—they're mere fantasies of holding someone and being held by them, drifting off with the comfortable weight of a flesh-bound body leaning against his own. Soothing, too, are his memories of nuzzling against the warm crook of a neck, of someone stroking his hair till he squirms, scalp and shoulders rippling with pleasurable tingles. Of being read to in bed until he falls asleep. 

Hints of Zagreus snake into his reveries, anointing them with fleeting glimpses. Fiery leaves against pitch black hair. The flash of one blood-red ruby eye set in dark sclera; the matching vivid green set in white. The ache in Hypnos' chest follows him into the domestic scenes of his musings, drawing deep sighs that—alas—fail to free him from the cruel grip of his _want_. 

Hypnos is desperately touch-starved. 

He's been longing for physical contact, even when neither sex nor intimate activity factors into it. Regrettably, Nyx has been resolute about keeping her distance, so he isn't about to fling himself into her arms for a hug while wailing _Mom!_

While it isn't strange that a god would possess such primitive needs, those who are of the Underworld are closest to Primordial Chaos and their visceral, insatiable curiosity. Perhaps this ancient link is what's left him with the voracious hunger of the void. Planted deep within him is an urge to lose himself in all manner of delights that come attached with having corporeal form. He can turn mortal dreams material and eat them for sustenance. But dreams have never been enough to feed the desires which are more… carnal in nature. 

Hypnos has few reservations where seduction and acts of coupling are concerned. He doesn't have to say much at all—those who find reticence charming are plentiful in number, and Hypnos need only rely on the language of moans. Persisting long enough to find a willing and enthusiastic partner isn't the problem; would that his hunger could be so easily sated. Sometimes, he takes to wandering the edges of Elysium, up past Erebus to trail along the borders of the mortal realm in search of entertainment. A pity that those encounters are barely enough to dispel his periods of fixation on a single target. Nymphs and merfolk and minor deities, monstrous or humanoid; none of them keep him for long. His own single-mindedness threatens to crush him in its grasp, so wringer-like he can almost hear the clank of chains. 

He would feel ashamed at the possessive quality of his desire, but he hasn't the wherewithal to view it as anything other than a dreadful inconvenience. 

Before Zagreus, Thanatos had been the closest thing Hypnos had for a regular companion.

For a long time, the twins were playmates and fellow disciples of Nyx. They'd shared a bedchamber, and had gone aeons before first exploring the pleasures to be found in each others' bodies. But when the spark of mutual curiosity finally met the tinder of their bond and ignited, they'd stoked the flames with countless stolen moments, away from their duties. That was before Thanatos had consigned himself to his work, anyway. Now, Hypnos suspects he's even stopped taking the time to touch himself to gain release. Whenever Thanatos passes him in the halls, his mouth is always pressed into a tight, grim frown, his entire posture stiff with pent-up tension.

Hypnos and Thanatos are brothers insofar as mortals would understand their relationship. The gods pattern their families after structures that mortals have dictated for themselves, but the titles are often afterthoughts which have light bearing on their inter-familial conduct. Other matters are of greater import to immortal beings in their dealings with their own kind, which humans recursively try to emulate. Hierarchy and duty, contracts and power. And so on.

Mother Nyx had extracted and fashioned her twins from pure Darkness with her own hands. Darkness itself had before that sprung forth from Chaos with Nyx alongside it, seed and womb cultivated from the same ineffable material. 

Sleep and Death are different sides of the same blade, able to stab just as well as they whittle. They are malleable tools of the same unfathomable force which all gods give themselves over to. This, mortals continue to personify, shaping the gods to their liking through the tales that they weave—lest their paltry grasp of the cosmos and its workings once more slips beyond their ken. Sleep and Death had almost been as weapons, once. But in the orations and writings of the mortals, bloodthirsty Ares currently holds dominion over that realm. Perhaps, the two could have been depicted as peaceable entities among mortalkind. Alas, they are regarded as more fearsome and merciless than ever thanks to the human appetite for warfare. Wars make for a bountiful supply of both the dead and of the sleepless.

Nonetheless, no mortal would ever know the true shape of their bond. Unique among Nyx's children, they'd quickened within her and _ripened_ together, enmeshed in the intense and explosive intimacy that the inheritance of chthonic immortality bestowed upon them. They'd had a juvenile phase of sorts—a progression from being completely affronted by their own corporeality, to exercising their sentience and coming to terms with existing. But still, that had been nothing like what mortals would have considered a childhood. Things like that were hazy when you'd been born fully-formed, adult by human qualifications. By the time Zagreus had come along, they were no longer quite the formless and unfinished incarnations they'd once been. 

Mother Nyx had provided their education, nurturance, guidance. And, when the occasion necessitated, she had supplied intimidation in terrifying measures, enough to rattle an Olympian. There'd been brief trips up top, the assumption of some rudimentary tasks. The moment they'd each set upon their separate paths towards assimilation into the mortal-writ pantheon, they'd begun to grow dissimilar in appearance, making aesthetic choices which further differentiated them and were more thematically suggestive of their respective duties. 

However, neither of the twins would ever forget what they'd shared.

—

Zagreus dies, and Hypnos gets a fancy chaise with the _plushest_ fabric covers. Set upon it is a pair of colourful embroidered pillows which look more decorative than functional. 

“Oh, gee!” He announces in Zagreus' presence, forgoing his usual spiel about the Cause of Death. “Wow! I have _no_ idea who'd be so charitable as to furnish me with this sleeper-seat over here! But I have gotta say, it would be highly unprofessional of me to fall asleep on the job. Be that as it may, I am _very_ appreciative of this kind gesture!” 

“Cut it out, Hypnos,” Zagreus says. Ah. He does sound especially terse this time. So much for having hoped there'd be a decent chance to segue into good-natured banter.

Sleep Incarnate lowers his heavily-lidded eyes, draws his lips into a sullen moue. “So you have once again suffered an ignoble death at the hands of—” Consulting his list, smirking in spite of himself. “ _Your own blast?_ Now that's a first! My humble suggestion would be: to not stand where these 'rocket' things'll blow you to bits the next time around.”

“I'll consider it.” Zagreus must have noticed the shift in Hypnos' mood. He's observant enough, has picked up enough cues to consider that Hypnos' flippancy and cheek belie the darker qualities of his nature. “Hey,” Zagreus says in a low voice, “hold out your hands.” 

Hypnos glances to his left, where the master is scowling over his parchment. Hades is absorbed in his work, and there's always a merciful amount of cover provided by the shades which throng the marble desk. After a moment's hesitation, he stretches his hands out, cupping them the same way he always does for Zagreus' covert nectar deliveries. 

Zagreus flattens his own palms against them, gently pressing Hypnos' hands down into the smooth, long skirts of his chiton. 

What could have been a tender moment to be savoured is marred by what Hypnos sees up close. Zagreus' eyes are rimmed with red. Dark shadows under them show Hypnos that there are some bone-deep burdens the Styx can't wash away after all. It's unfair. That haggard, somnolent aesthetic is Hypnos' thing. Someone so full of vigour—of _life_ —shouldn't be allowed to look like that.

“I tried,” Zagreus says, “but it's getting a lot harder to keep this up.” 

“If you're not going to rest now, then die for me the next time you get out, will you?” The words slip out in earnest before Hypnos can stop himself. “ _Really_ die for me. Get that nectar and come right back, just this once!”

A breath catches in Zagreus' throat. He doesn't reply, licking his cracked, dry lips to moisten them.

A coy smile from Hypnos. “I'll make it up to you. If you'll allow it.” He folds Zagreus' hands into his own, squeezing them in his long fingers before letting them go, pushing Zagreus away with a light shove. “You've done so much for me.” He forces down the thought that hisses in the back of his mind, reminding him that he isn't special; Zagreus barely tries to hide that he does so much for everyone.

The prince will not let himself be flattered. “It's the least I can do for anyone here, given that… it was through my actions that so much in the house has been turned on its head, that my father is more insufferable than ever. But.”

_Whoa. That almost sounded like a plea for forgiveness._

Hope blooms in Hypnos' chest. If he'd anything resembling a mortal heart within him, it would probably be throbbing right out of his body. 

“If it means that much to you,” Zagreus says, “then we'll, uh, hang out when I get back. You have my word.”

Hypnos nods, speechless. The surroundings seem muted somehow. The susurrus of murmuring shades seems to fade, leaving the sound of Zagreus' sizzling tread as he heads towards Cerberus. A stab of jealousy causes Hypnos to avert his gaze, before he has to watch the beast's left head nuzzle into Zagreus' chest for a good fussing. 

He tugs his eye mask over his eyes and crosses his arms, settling back into his usual slumped posture.

* * *

Zagreus is sure he can get to some nectar before he arrives at the outer reaches of Tartarus. There, Megaera (he usually hopes it's her) awaits him in the entryway chamber. But whichever one of the Erinyes it is this time, they won't have to fight, won't have to grind out their awkward exchange of words through clenched teeth on both sides. He'll take the humiliation of dying (again) in his stride, before he even passes that threshold. 

Easy enough. 

A part of him is relieved to know that gusts of superheated air won't be assaulting his skin in Asphodel this time. Not a single blasted hydra head, no Exalted, no evil butterfly balls. The safety and order of the House has never been more appealing. He didn't think he had a limit, but then he'd slipped up in front of Hypnos, of all people. The way Hypnos had suggested that Zagreus simply _rest_ in that aloof manner of his was both infuriating and alluring. Zagreus had felt exposed. Vulnerable. And he's not allowed himself to seek comfort and attend to the rawness of his own emotions for a while now. _What a mess… What am I doing?_

For the first time in ages, weariness dogs his heels like a curse from Chaos. The bravado that usually steels his sword arm has been drained from him; his slashes and thrusts with Stygius are sloppy, each bloodstone he manifests seems to punch the air from his lungs upon launch. He spurns the chambers offering caches of centaur heart, dashes carelessly over rigged panels. Pain erupts from every fresh wound, each gash, each blunt-force impact is experienced with renewed acuity. The exhaustion has heightened his senses to an unbelievable degree. 

He's not actively working on dying, but he isn't exactly fighting quite as hard to stay alive.

When the clear glass sphere set into the next chamber door fades into view and reveals a nectar bottle, the sight is a blessed one. _Come on,_ he mutters to himself. _Gotta live just long enough to grab the goods and give up. Let go._

The inferno-bombers rarely pose a serious threat. Yet, Zagreus catches one too many alchemical flasks on an elbow, a shoulder, flailing in some general direction rather than sprinting into calculated dodges. The fragile ceramic bombs shatter and ignite on impact, leaving swathes of blisters where they land. His ears are ringing from the sound of the explosions; his flesh feels _cooked_. Stygius glows white-hot with electricity, Zeus' touch crackling down the length of the broad blade. Balls of lightning bounce frantically between the bombers, scattering sparks behind them as they cut jagged paths through the air. 

_Finally._ Zagreus' vision swims, the reality around him stutters, and the bombers dissolve into nothingness. 

Zagreus pockets his prize. _Oh, gods._ The thought of falling face-first into the Styx is an almost welcome one. His next choice—jewels, then. (Does it make a difference at this point?) The glass shatters under his touch, and the chamber door slides upwards to reveal: a room blanketed by an eerie glow. The green phosphorescence lingers as the opening note of a funereal toll announces the presence of—

Thanatos. _Blast._

Death Incarnate materialises, dispelling the greenish cast with a flourish of his scythe. 

“Hello, Zagreus.” Thanatos greets him. His brow is knitted in concern. “What… happened to you? Maybe you should stand back and let me take care of this lot.” 

Zagreus shakes his head in an attempt to sharpen his senses and practically creates for himself a halo of dark crimson mist. He's bleeding profusely from the nose. Everything he sees before him is filtered through a pulsating curtain of red. There's a pounding in his ears that's relentless. Tough to focus on the shape of Thanatos' words. Though it's not hard to guess what the god of death might be saying. 

_Sardonic, something, something, bit smug. Here, Zag, let's have ourselves a little competition, what do you say to that? Mm-hm. I like it when you prove yourself to me. Did you miss me…?_

Death Incarnate had been angered by Zagreus' escapes. In true Thanatos fashion, he'd stifled his emotions under curt sentences and taken his bitterness out on Zagreus by lashing at him with words spoken in a dreadful monotone. Disappearing in a huff. _(Totally not a hissy fit.)_

Zagreus, no stranger to being a disappointment, had returned the restrained outbursts with a mixture of frustration and cajoling. For some reason, Thanatos keeps dropping in on him despite the brevity of their encounters, so Zagreus brings him nectar—even if Thanatos does make him earn his centaur heart every single time. Zagreus enjoys getting Thanatos flustered by his gifting (being harried to _perform_ on cue during his escape attempts, not so much), and the cadence of their meetings seems to have settled into cordial exchanges. Flirtatious ones, even. 

“Don' get lef' b'hind, Than.” Zagreus teases, speech slurring. The chamber is spinning. Around him, the huge stone columns appear to be toppling upon their foundations, slow, inexorable, closing in. His training kicks into gear _(thanks, Achilles)_ , again he finds himself taking up a warrior's stance. 

Sigils start to form on the floor. 

There's barely enough time to react. For a single, crystalline moment, his most recent escapades blur into one. Standing in place, Zagreus raises his sword as though armed with Aegis. He realises, belatedly, that this weapon carries not Athena's vested interest in his survival, and the beam from that brimstone over there has no care for deflection, anyway. It's boring a tunnel right into his body. Just as well.

_Oops._

“Zagreus!”

“Bye, Than—”

—

Most mortals have but a vague idea of how the Styx runs through the entirety of the Underworld. Those who dwell upon the surface have long searched for the river's mouth, to no avail. They make their guesses, as though doing so can stave off their own inevitable ride in Charon's boat. 

The true mouth of the Styx—an ever-hungry maw—opens into the veins of those bound to the infernal depths below the earth. It ebbs and flows through them, always ready to reel in anyone who dares stray too far from its reach. The river need never claim, only wait; the river need never search, only take. 

Sometimes, in between hoping for a successful escape, Zagreus finds himself wishing for a more pleasant trip back to the House. Going back is almost as painful as dying, if not more so. Logically speaking, he should not be so inclined to hasten to his repeated breaks for freedom, given that the journey home is fraught with…

Zagreus coughs. His open mouth fills with the coppery tang of the Styx as he sinks into it. 

He doesn't struggle, breathes the pungent fluid in. 

The river soaks through his clothes, breaches his skin and permeates his flesh, sitting _inside_ of him like a gelatinous membrane that envelopes every fibre of his being. 

Shades have drowned in this stuff—once-mortals who fancied they'd be able to exercise their tenacity by diving into the river, hoping to swim themselves out of the Underworld and embed themselves in the annals of local myth. Such acts are branded despicable by Lord Hades. These drowned souls, however, still find gainful employment in his domain; they swarm the banks of the river in the lowest reaches of the realm, striking terror into any damned wretch who would dare to consider abandoning their station. 

The Styx is different for gods. 

_Clumps of disembodied limbs bumping up against him. Clotting sensations radiating from every site of injury._

Nothing that Zagreus isn't familiar with. The memories keep him riddled with guilt, knowing that dispensing with Meg means that she'll go through _this_. Several other entities bound to the House of Hades are guided back to their posts in this way when they fall. A violent shiver travels the length of Zagreus' body, wrenching his bones back into place. Missing teeth sprout from his gums. Dislocations are resolved with alarming swiftness, fractures mended, severed tendons and arteries knit themselves back into functional states. Even the lingering traces of Olympus are washed away. 

Would that the river could also siphon from him this haunting fatigue. 

The Styx goes about its tasks unseen, and it is very consistent in its work. The river is all the rivers of the Underworld, even cool Lethe and flaming Phlegethon. There are whisperings, tales that the waters had once been a goddess. Zagreus supposes she must have been a weaver, the way the fraying threads of himself are found, gathered up and enlaced with considerable skill, time and again. 

Hypnos is waiting at the steps. 

He's perched at the edge of the Pool of Styx, if his posture of tilting slightly forwards while still seated in his cloak could be considered perching. His face is partially obscured by his mask. The god of sleep peers out from under it with one eye, which he rubs his knuckles into with disturbing force as he yawns. Then, he smirks down at Zagreus. 

“ _That was fast!_ Or, that's what I would say, if I knew for sure that were true. But, I don't! See, the numbers written over here suggest that you haven't been gone for very long, though who's to say what that _means!_ The internal _sensing_ of things is indeed very mysterious. I couldn't tell you how it all works! So! A brimstone, huh. Welcome home!”

“Guh. Blub.” Zagreus replies. 

The Styx dribbles inelegantly from his mouth as he raises his head. The effort it takes to do so is immense. He's feeling strangely bloodless, _cold_. His arms and legs seem to be in order, but the will to move them feels like dead weight, somehow. Leaden. “Gonna get'y in trouble,” he warns Hypnos, who is hovering towards him. He can't remember the last time he saw Sleep Incarnate _standing_ , and, oh, gods, he is _tall_ when drawn up to his full height. Granted, Hypnos is also suspended in mid-air, floating clear of the Styx. 

The sight of Hypnos shouldering off his quilted cloak seems to Zagreus like an awful portent, heralding disaster, a great war to come. 

Zagreus squeezes his eyes shut as the garment swoops down upon him. It's surprisingly quiet for something so large. The cloak hardly makes a splash as it dips itself into the pool and scoops him up from the sticky, opaque waters. Fortunately, he's feeling too drained to yelp. 

_Gods, it's happening… I'm actually sitting!_

His fears have been misplaced.

By some potent force his sodden mind cannot fathom (godly powers), the moisture from his body is drawn into the cloak and evaporated thence. Hypnos waves his hand, and a towel flies up from the nearby rack and hits Zagreus in the face. Surely, he'd have known that Zagreus has no use for it. 

“I'm taking my break,” Hypnos gleefully informs him.

Zagreus finds out firsthand that sinking into Hypnos' mantle is like easing into a good dream. So… soft. He's warm, and dry. At peace. _Restored._ Forgetting what it's like to have muscles pulled taut from responding to his demands. Forgetting how to fight. Tension is a faraway notion. Sure, the cloak has always looked comfy. But, ensconced within its voluminous padding, a craving for the sensual which he has hitherto not known awakens in him. 

_Really, really don't want to know what Father will think of this!_ The thought is a distant one. The awareness of said father's angry voice is muffled by the air around Zagreus warping and molding itself to him like a cocoon. He's being carted off towards the lounge in the cloak, flanked by Hypnos. The sleep god is talking to him through the veil, keeping up a cheerful, modulating patter which Zagreus registers very little of. 

_Does he… not fear Father?_

—

Hypnos does not, in fact, fear Lord Hades. 

Although, it would be more accurate to say that he remains under the protection of Mother Nyx, who, while deferential to the realm's master, does not fear Lord Hades. Nyx's presence in the Underworld predates Hades', and he has never presumed to command her. (It was Nyx who had ensured that both Hypnos and Zagreus suffered no severe repercussions for their disobedience.) 

For what it's worth, Hypnos has been doing his best to acquiesce to the most recent condition she's set: that he is responsible for his own choices in their entirety. Managing consequences—facing them, appreciating them as a realistic result of his actions, has never been his strong suit. He's not being punished—Nyx has made this clear—but she's also been firm about withholding her presence in his life until he's demonstrated that he no longer weaponises her status as a daughter of Chaos. 

Then, there's his temporary confinement to the Underworld. Separation _and_ restriction, the perfect alchemical concoction for loneliness and being bored out of his mind. The Lord of the Dead could never compare to these tortures. 

All in all, it was probably the Zeus Incident that led to this, though putting the House of Hades to sleep was probably the tipping point. 

“The _what_ incident?” Zagreus nearly hollers. 

Some nearby shades broadcast startled auras. They've been eavesdropping on the pair in the staff lounge. Hypnos is an unusual sight here. Even more scandalous—he'd made his appearance while ushering the prince to a table all bundled up in his cloak, then unceremoniously tipped Zagreus onto the rug in front of a table. 

Hypnos' hands flutter, then grab at the edges of his cloak to wrap the garment around himself like a carapace. “I, uh, displeased your Lord Uncle Zeus some time ago. It's a long story, but in short! Turns out that some gods take being put to sleep against their will _far_ more badly than others! The surface can be a real swell place to visit, though not if you have to watch the skies for—”

“Watch the what?” Zagreus asks, confused.

“The sky?” Hypnos ventures to clarify, then, “Oh, no. You've never seen the sky, have you?” _What business would the son of the Underworld's ruler have with that great upturned bowl suspended over the earth!?_

Zagreus shakes his head. He knows interiors. Caverns. Pillars which brace roofs and overhead beams inside the ever-shifting maze of chambers. The higher up he's gone, the further past his periphery the columns and ceilings rise. Skies, he knows nothing of. 

Hypnos hacks out a loud cough to disguise his blunder. “Ha! Ahem! Uhm, so,” he continues, “I've been officially cut off from my surface duties. I'm stuck here for now! That's probably why my brother has been avoiding me. He probably thinks I'm an embarrassment since he never drops in to say hi to me any more. But you do!” 

“Oh? He's been avoiding you? I've seen Than out there. Very recently, as a matter of fact. He, uhh, saw me die.” The soporific effect of Hypnos' cloak is slowly lifting, and Zagreus is beginning to remember the events of his latest doomed quest. “Yeah… he can sense me out there. All that slaughter is like a beacon to him. He's really competitive, and I'm guessing you already knew that.” 

“Ha! Haha! I can be competitive too. Like you wouldn't believe!”

Zagreus snorts. “You? Pardon my offence in saying this, but you strike me as someone with a temperament that's more on the… placid side.” 

Hypnos' reply is strained. “No offence taken, none at all! I mean, you are _not_ wrong!” The broad smile that Zagreus is used to seeing seems a little stretched, and the gesticulating hands no longer dance the way they do when Hypnos seems genuinely pleased. They're usually animated, like when he recites Zagreus' Cause of Death of the Day (Or Night).

“Argh, I'm doing it, aren't I?” Zagreus wrinkles his nose. “Meg called it my natural 'unwarranted honesty'. She was this close to working out a system under which I'd earn chits from her, to say whatever I wanted to her without thinking. The rest of the time, I'd have to practice being considerate. I told her that thinking is hard. She said that only an irresistible incentive or a painful rejection would make me learn.”

“Aha, ha! That's just how it is!” 

“Well, don't let her know that she's right. Actually, don't let her know that I've spoken of her at all. It's bad enough now that we meet so she can try to flay me alive. On that note, maybe don't tell anyone Than's been helping me out, either.”

Hypnos nods. 

He's about to let himself be overcome by drowsiness. 

There are some choice emotions putting out tendrils under his skin right now, and he knows how fast they could grow and strangle him. They're all rather acerbic, culminating in jealousy. Nothing a quick nap won't solve.

_Gah! Mother Nyx has indeed raised you well._ He muses bitterly, yet with fondness. _All your words are honeyed! Your barbs may be taken as compliments! You'd never be mean, or sly._

Slowly, drifting off… 

_You'd never hurt on purpose… only injure me with… your sincerity…_

It's Zagreus' turn to ease the awkwardness between them. He clears his throat, and Hypnos' drooping lids shoot open. 

“Ah!! I'm—!” Up. 

“Right.” Zagreus gives Hypnos a moment to collect himself. “That's the most I've said about myself in a while. Truly, I'm not much of a conversationalist, but…” He trails off, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Blaming a _cloak_ for loosening his tongue would be too absurd. “Here.” He holds out the bottle of nectar. “My deaths would be much duller without you around to brighten my re-entries. I'm glad you're here. Thank you, Hypnos.”

Sleep Incarnate accepts the nectar, flustered. “Thank _you_ , you!” In that moment, he is horrified to realise that he's never addressed Zagreus by name, or by title, or by any appropriate epithet. It's always a very impersonal _Oh, hey! It's you again!_ or something to that effect. You. 

_Now you've done it! You've drawn attention to it!_

“Me,” Zagreus agrees, with a smile that creases the corners of his eyes, quirking his lips into a smile. “Hey. You don't ever call me by name.”

No way.

_That's unfair!_ The observation demands no explanation from Hypnos, but Zagreus' genial tone coaxes one out of him anyway. 

“I don't know if I can! I recognise you and all, you know that I know who you are! It's enough that we have this thing as… fellow Underworld people… beings. Friends.” A small, thoughtful sound. “Hmn. No. I suppose it's not, huh.”

“Oh.” Zagreus shifts uncomfortably. His shuffling reveals a hole in the rug under his flaming feet; newly exposed areas of floor gradually begin to fade as the carpet regenerates. “I had the idea there might be more.” 

Silence descends upon them. Soundless, but smashing into the epicenter of their exchange like a concussive pulse. Many beats pass. Then Hypnos sputters. “W-What?” 

Zagreus is looking at him from under long, thick eyelashes. His furrowed brow lends him a rather guileless expression, and his mouth is set in a determined line. The apple of his throat bobs visibly, as though he's swallowing his words. Hypnos wants nothing more than to reach out and ruffle his hair, tease his laurel wreath into disarray. Clasp him on either side of his face where his ears meet jawline, and pull him in for a kiss so deep and so bruising that he'll be brought to tears. 

A pinkish flush spreads across Zagreus' face and chest. Hypnos is not ignorant of the rumours that blood—red like mortals'—is what circulates throughout his body in place of ichor. The Olympians have gold in their veins; the children of Night and Darkness have something considerably inkier and far more inscrutable. Zagreus bleeds red like the Styx, and his blood is defiant and unrepentant under the greyish marble-like hue of his skin, completely giving him away. 

The prince sighs. “I'm going to have to leave if you keep staring at me like that. I'd offer to take this somewhere else so we can talk about it in private, but my bedchamber is, _heh_ , a bit of a hellhole. Been that way since, well—” 

“We could go to mine!” Hypnos squeaks out without even hesitating. He's not losing this chance. He lowers his voice, heedful of the inquisitive shades stationed nearby. “So, I've got a cozy little chamber to myself here, for when I don't wish to leave the House between shifts—” 

“Yeah? Let's go, then.”

—

Zagreus hadn't known what to expect of a room occupied by the god of sleep, but not this—

A living, breathing tableaux of flowering plants. 

He recognises a few of them from the Elysian Fields, but the rest are unfamiliar. Without the verdant plains of Elysium to sustain their growth, they have managed to thrive and proliferate under what looks to be a complex web of spellwork. Bottles and vials, vases and jars—they house a bedding of mulch for roots, while stems twist and stretch in unusual configurations that would probably not exist outside of this room. The most vivid of the blossoms are a deep red in colour. _These_ , Zagreus has very recently seen; two of them adorn the front of Hypnos' belt. With their cupped petals, they resemble Hypnos' cloak in miniature, each as though ready to catch a tiny sleep god in its snug embrace. 

At the center of the chamber, a pallet boasts the largest assortment of blankets and pillows Zagreus has ever seen. Hypnos leaps into it and lands face-down with a _fhwump_. Something tugs sharply in Zagreus' chest to hear him make little muffled noises of pleasure into the covers. He's forgotten about the cloak—it seems to have a will of its own, sneaking up from behind Zagreus and nudging the back of his knees. He tumbles backwards and lands neatly in the makeshift seat. 

Hypnos has turned around to face Zagreus, managing to look somewhat elegant while sunk deep in his pile of blankets, his luxurious throne. The heavy ornamental collar and bracers he wears begin to disappear, dissolving into shimmering golden dust with a sibilant soughing. A whole new expanse of skin around the region of his throat has been revealed, framed by the wide-necked opening of his chiton. He looks delectable.

The god of sleep fixes Zagreus with an imperious gaze, though the effect is ruined by that grin of his, conspiratorial and impish. “We can talk, now,” Hypnos says. “You were saying something about hoping for _more_.”

“For a start, I want to apologise. Properly. I asked a favour of you, and then you bore the brunt of the consequences. I'm sorry, Hypnos.” 

Hypnos' hooded eyes widen at the admission of guilt. He wants to brush it off, but his lips draw into a scowl instead. 

_You've absolutely nothing to apologise for, dummy! I agreed to help._

The sleep god glares at Zagreus, mouth twisted into an uncharacteristic scowl. A harsh whisper rushes forth: “Good.” Then, the ugly expression softens. “Uhm… I mean, thank you! Sincerely! I accept your apology! Y-You probably didn't mean me any harm, but I, uh, felt kinda _used_ after all that happened. No one ever tells me what's going on around here, y'know? It's always _Hypnos do this, Hypnos do that, here's another assignment for you, Hypnos, get that done too_. It's very _lonely!_ ” The final statement is almost spat out, too bitter to keep down. 

“I know,” Zagreus says. “I don't.” Correcting himself almost immediately. He wrings his hands in his lap, fretful. “You must think me spoiled rotten, for me to be doing as I please, with nothing to hold me back. To be accountable to no one but myself. Fearing nothing. Olympians tripping over themselves to break me out of this place when you've been forbidden to leave. And yet, it's been worth every death I've ever died so far.”

“If you so badly want to put it that way, then I shall envy you that, and detest you for elaborating unasked, Zagreus.”

“It's a shame that this has to be the first time I'm hearing you say my name.” 

Hypnos flicks his gaze around the room, allowing it to meander across the riot of flora, his neglected nectar stash in a corner (hidden inside a miniature grove of poppy plants), the dozen or so books he'll never finish reading thanks to his tendency to fall asleep on the pages. He looks everywhere but at Zagreus. So when those piercing gold eyes finally light upon Zagreus' face, and Hypnos says, “You know, I promise I can make it sound sweeter”—the Heir of Hades feels a great seizing in his body, a roaring in his ears. “If you'll let me,” Hypnos adds. 

“Oh, woah. Sure,” Zagreus answers. “Please.” 

“You’re not afraid of me?” Hypnos asks, eyes alight with wonder. He's being incredibly vague with what he wants, terrified to state it plain. “May I remind you—I’ve skill enough to put the entire House to sleep, shades and all. I made _your father_ leave his desk! Just you alone would be far from a doozy. I could breathe onto you in a special way and you’d nod off—just like that!”

Zagreus shakes his head, smiling. “Is that meant to be a threat? I don’t fear you, Hypnos. I wouldn’t be here if I did. I trust you, and I… want this. I've been meaning to get to know you better, and I'm not here for that sort of sleep. Well, not right now, at least.”

“Wow, I, I don't know what to say!”

“Show me, then.” Zagreus' voice is thick with need. “And let me touch you to return the privilege.”

And Hypnos is rising from his blankets, crawling into Zagreus' lap and straddling his thighs, looming over him. Zagreus is so _warm_. Hypnos can feel the heat of the prince's body seeping right through their clothes, settling against his own skin. It's then that he realises—all this time, he's been _craving_ the possibility of lying skin-to-skin with Zagreus. It’s been so long since he’s been this close to someone else, and the thought that they could be even closer is a roiling hunger within him. The realisation that Zagreus isn’t pushing him away is buzzing away in his head. He wants to melt into Zagreus, held back only by the chilling knot of fear in his gut that Zagreus might reject him after all.

Hypnos is angular and lanky where Zagreus is all alternating tapered lines of broad and lean. The cloak shifts and bears the weight of two as though they were but puffs of breath. Zagreus' arms settle comfortably around the other's slender waist. 

“There's something I need you to know,” Hypnos says. His voice is firm and lowered in register. “I do this… with my brother. I sleep with him. Couple with him. We belong to each other, though not exclusively. We have an agreement.” He's not lying, but the words taste sour in his mouth. The continuity of their intimate relationship is currently in a state of suspension; there'd been an abrupt halt in their activities what feels like aeons ago, but no finality, no closure. 

“Oh? Than?” Zagreus asks. “Unless, you mean, Charon. Not that I'd judge. He's a rather charming individual, though he drives a hard bargain. Shrewd businessman.”

“ _Thanatos_. As in, Death Incarnate, Thanatos. My twin.” Hypnos sounds peeved. But his worries begin to untangle, unspooling into more hopeful longing. 

“Ah.” Zagreus does a poor job of pretending to sound disinterested. He licks his lips, playing at being cool and collected, like he's teasing out his thoughts. “So you're saying that, hypothetically, if I happened to find him attractive, and expressed the desire to deepen my relationship with him, then he might not reject my proposition outright. At least, not on the basis that he has already given himself to another.”

“Sh-shut up?” Hypnos shoots him a withering look, disbelief written all over his face. As he speaks, his fingers dance up the dips and curves of Zagreus' arm, skimming across the firm muscles. “That would be hypothetically _very_ nice, good for you, but you're doing this on purpose to rile me up or something, aren't you!?” 

He feels about for the clasps that attach the skeletal spaulder to Zagreus' shoulder and undoes them with a practiced deftness. The spaulder falls to the floor with a clatter of ivory, punctuating Hypnos' ire. 

Zagreus cradles the back of Hypnos' neck and brings their heads together. “Yeah. I am,” he admits. “Though not entirely.” His lips find the curve of an ear, gently nipping, heated breath huffing into Hypnos' fluffy curls and down the side of his neck. “I meant to ask. I'm serious. I do find him attractive. But I want you, too. Now.”

“Hngh.” Regardless, jealousy rears its head again. There's a feverish, frantic energy simmering in the pit of Hypnos' gut. Every bit of Zagreus is maddeningly hot to the touch, perpetually sun-warmed as though he'd been blessed at birth by Helios. It's driving Hypnos wild with need. “I got to you first! Told you I was competitive!”

“You won't fall asleep?” 

“Not if you keep me awake.”

—

Sleep Incarnate has such delicate, faintly translucent skin, lit from within by a mercurial strangeness which emanates shadows in place of glows. Zagreus notices its peculiar quality mere seconds before he mouths at Hypnos' neck, clumsily brushing his thumb against the underside of the latter's jaw to coax him into offering more convenient access. Hypnos squirms under his touch but obliges, mewling when Zagreus tongues his exposed throat and sucks a mark into it. It'll be hidden by his collar—that is, if it does not fade—so Zagreus takes care to leave a few more before pulling back to admire his work. The evidence is stark against Hypnos' skin and tinged with deep purples and greens. He's been given express permission to do as he pleases, though he's not in the mood for anything intense or extreme. Being with Hypnos feels light and mischievous. Different from what he'd normally associate with sex. While Zagreus appreciates Hypnos' consideration in deciding on a safeword, he wants his time with the sleep god to be leisurely and uncomplicated. 

Hypnos is writhing in Zagreus' lap, the fabric of his chiton impossibly fluid in the prince's grasp. Undeterred, Zagreus grabs a handful of Hypnos' ass, fighting the slippery cloth to knead that pert bottom to his heart's content. He smiles as Hypnos' back arches, until the sleep god is nearly seated upright over his lap and Zagreus has a good view of his flushed face. Hypnos bites back a moan when Zagreus' fingers creep under the hem of his clothing. The prince's eager hands leave two palm-sized stripes of warmth as they slide up Hypnos' bare thighs. 

The god of sleep is quite demonstrably not wearing underclothes. His skirts are tented, the tiniest of dark spots where he's leaked against the fabric. 

Zagreus lets out a playful laugh. “Wow, Hypnos. I'd ask if this is your usual state of, uh, dress, or if it's something you save for _special occasions_ , but don't tell me. Keep me guessing, yeah?” He feels his way under Hypnos' skirts until he's teasing the underside of the sleep god's twitching length, pulls down the foreskin to play with the sensitive head, smearing the newly gathered slickness around with his fingers. “I've thought about this,” Zagreus admits. “Being allowed to touch you. Make you feel good. I'm glad you wanted this too.”

Hypnos whines, and Zagreus is delighted. Hypnos' cock, like the rest of him, is cool in Zagreus' hands. The anatomy seems very much like his own, just slightly scaled up in size, more slender than girthy. There's what feels like a puff of soft and curly hair, presumably silvery white in colour. Zagreus thinks about taking Hypnos so deep down his throat that he'll be burying his nose into that fluffy little cloud. He loosely grasps Hypnos' erection and moves his fist into a single upstroke— 

Hypnos squeaks and his hips jerk. He slaps at Zagreus' hands through his chiton. _Too soon! Too darn soon!_ He's so hard, and he's been aching for this for so long, yet it doesn't seem right to rush through it. 

“Uhm…!” Hypnos is almost shy. “I'd like to make this last, if that's okay? Can we slow down?” 

“Yeah. You're really adorable,” Zagreus says, meeting Hypnos' eyes. He releases Hypnos, though he can't help but give his dick an affectionate, rather longing pat. 

Hypnos can't even bring himself to grumble when Zagreus wipes his hand on his chiton, trying to be all surreptitious about it. Zagreus is so _stupidly_ sincere, every word and every small thing he does is just fuel thrown upon the raging fire of Hypnos' desire for him. The colour rises in Hypnos' cheeks. He knows he doesn't blush as prettily as Zagreus does; the greenish undertone of his flushed skin comes up uneven and mottled. And yet, Zagreus keeps looking at him like a pious mortal devotee, like a temple priestess, odd-eyed gaze drinking in the sight before him, thirsty as an anguished shade by the banks of the Lethe. 

Zagreus can’t stop touching Hypnos. His hands don’t stay in one place long, roving over Hypnos’ hips, the small of his back, playing with the pleats of his chiton, twining into his hair. 

“What happened to the other one?” Zagreus is touching the wisp of a feather that sticks out from the right of Hypnos' head. The plume is almost of the same texture and candescent white of his hair; downy and light except for a narrow shaft down the middle, ending where it's attached to Hypnos' scalp. 

The feather twitches and folds outwards, extending into a jointed frame along which many more vanes fan out, forming a bizarre, flapping thing about the size of Zagreus' hand. The… appendage seems familiar—Zagreus recognises it from illustrations of harpies in books. As a motif on the decorative metalwork of chariots. A glowing symbol, when Hermes calls. On Than's pauldron. The back of Hypnos' cloak. Not leathery and webbed like Meg's, but nonetheless— _A wing._

Hypnos gestures to the unadorned side of his head and scoffs. “The other one, huh? Confiscated.” A blink, then the wing is once more disguised as an accessory, insignificant and unassuming. “If I can get caught up on my work down here, maybe they'll give it back.”

“Who—” Zagreus starts to say, but Hypnos is floating off him and dragging him away from the cloak. A spelled pocket of air renders them weightless, until Hypnos lands on his pile of blankets with Zagreus atop him, pressed flush against the gentle arc of his body. 

“Kiss me?” Hypnos asks, pouting. He sounds waspish and needy all at once. “We didn't come here to talk about sad things. We can save that for later.” 

“You got i— _hnnn, Hypnos…!_ ” Zagreus is cut off by Hypnos shifting under him. Hypnos is grazing the clothed hardness between his legs with an elevated thigh. Zagreus rolls his hips into Hypnos' propped-up leg. Their height difference lends a great deal of convenient friction to the whole configuration. Every small movement turns into an exchange of mischievous nudges, less and less tentative until they're grinding against each other, flushed and giddy. Zagreus lowers his face to Hypnos', reverent and furtive. He brushes his lips against the corner of Hypnos' mouth, oddly respectful for someone who has just marked up his bedmate's neck. 

Hypnos' patience is being ground into a _very_ fine powder. “Just kiss me already…” He whines. “Please?” Without waiting for a response, the sleep god grabs the front of Zagreus' chiton to hold him in place. He parts his lips and greedily licks into Zagreus' mouth, sealing off the rest of the frustrated noises which were threatening to escape from his own throat. Zagreus' fiery wreath flares even hotter and brighter when Hypnos grabs at the leaves for purchase. Hypnos' skin is impervious to the heat, and Zagreus groans low in his throat when Hypnos toys with the wreath, rakes his fingers through Zagreus' hair, massaging and tugging lightly in time to their movements. 

There's a hint of the unrefined in the way Zagreus kisses—all mindless suckling and clacking teeth. It's sloppy and distinguished by haste, yet his excitement is painfully endearing. Hypnos pinches Zagreus' lower lip between his teeth, pacing him, slowing him down. The god of sleep is gentle and confident as he plants kisses upon Zagreus' mouth, pausing to nuzzle at the tender skin beneath his ears and breathe in the scent of his skin. The prince lets Hypnos lead, shivering at the flirtatious path of kisses along his jaw, his neck, the base of his throat. When Hypnos fits their mouths together again, Zagreus is ready to temper his eagerness, finally meeting the wet, fevered strokes of the other's tongue with strength and control in equal measure. Hypnos persists until Zagreus' kisses are pliant and yielding, tender as they are beseeching. Until both Zagreus and himself are softly huffing out staggered breaths, emptying sweet moans into each other's mouths. Clutching at garments, hands buried in hair. Until the tension of their mutual yearning swells, fit to burst through its seams. 

They break the kiss for air, fall apart with breaths still coming in quiet little gasps. The sleep god's crescent smile scythes into a giggle of delight, unable to contain his pleasure at how Zagreus is unravelling. The metallic-smokey scent of Zagreus fills Hypnos' senses. He buries his face in the crook of Zagreus' neck and once more inhales the curious, alluring aroma of him. 

“Wow,” says Zagreus, dazed. “I, maybe, I could put breaking to the surface on hold again, for that.” He levers himself up on his elbows, afraid to keep his full weight on Hypnos though he knows that the sleep god is not as frail as he looks. 

“Pfff! It's just making out! Maybe you'll change your mind once you get out and discover new joys. You'll be singing a different tune then!” Hypnos shoves Zagreus off and rolls onto his side, turning to look at the Heir of Hades. “In the meantime, there're still _loads_ of things you've yet to try getting killed by.” 

“Mm, haven't tried cooking myself in magma, for one.”

“This is your idea of bedchamber talk, huh?” 

The scathing tone, like the rasp of a blade upon a whetstone, only winds Zagreus up again. He smiles haplessly at Hypnos, shrugs. “What can I say? I like pain?”

Hypnos makes an indistinct noise and begins unfastening Zagreus' belt, so the prince returns the favour and fumbles with Hypnos' girdle to loosen it. The long chiton rolls up Hypnos' body and over his raised arms in lazy ripples, aided by a simple spell. A generous yawn from Hypnos accents that elegant stretching pose, and Zagreus is secretly pleased to note that the sleep god's mouth hangs open a few seconds too long. Hypnos is practically salivating at the sight of Zagreus pushing his underclothes over his hips to free his hard length. Zagreus' flush deepens. Obligingly, he palms his erection, letting the weight of it settle in his hand in the casual way he'd touch himself in his own room. He smiles when Hypnos' breath visibly catches in his chest. The god of sleep is openly enjoying the sight now. 

Thus, they shed their accoutrements and clothes, dropping them into a haphazard pile beside the pallet. Except—

“This stays on!” Hypnos dodges Zagreus' attempt to divest him of his eye mask. 

“Alright, alright!” Laughter bubbles up in Zagreus' throat. This is ridiculous, and so very _Hypnos_. _I'd let him do anything with me,_ he thinks. The god of sleep is capricious and petulant, coy and charming; Zagreus finds himself wholly arrested by the need to mold himself into whatever Hypnos would ask of him, and from this he would derive his own relief. 

Hypnos is sitting on the blankets with his long legs folded beneath him, taking in deep, slow breaths as though savouring the ambiguous earthy scent that hangs in the air of his chamber. Half-closed eyes, lips quirked into a distinct smile. Despite the cool hues of his skin, he looks radiant and _rosy_ , content and not in the least abashed by his nakedness. Then again, Hypnos has always looked somewhat sedated to begin with. 

Zagreus marvels at how diminished Hypnos seems when he's framed by the expansive dips and rises of his covers. The effect is more drastic than the one his cloak confers. Zagreus almost feels bad about disrupting the tranquility, but Hypnos doesn't protest when Zagreus touches him. The prince loosely encircles Hypnos' body in his arms to hoist him up and onto his back. He coaxes Hypnos to relax in a half-sprawl, arranging him among the blankets with astounding patience. Unable to contain his lust any longer, Zagreus grins and settles himself in between Hypnos' outstretched legs. He presses little nips and kisses to the inside of Hypnos' thighs, effortlessly lifting them to spread them even wider apart. The sounds he elicits from Hypnos ripple right through him, shooting straight to the loins. Hypnos writhes and jerks and lets out these drawn-out whimpering moans; all Zagreus does in response is pin his hips down with firm, strong hands.

“Ha! Ahh—! _Zag,_ it, it, feels _real_ nice but it _tickles_!”

“What was that?” Zagreus stills his movements, looking up with feigned interest written all over his face. “What did you call me?” 

“Ugh! You're wicked, _Zagreus!_ ” Hypnos' tone is an admonishing one, verging on a whine.

“Hmm! Not bad, but I was promised that my name would sound sweet. That wasn't it.” 

Before he can suffer yet another rebuke, Zagreus tongues the base of Hypnos' cock and laves the entire length to coat it in spit, sucking the sensitive head into his mouth with a wet, obscene slurp. The noise it drags from Hypnos is something between a cry and a sob. It's amazing and erotic and tightens his gut. He slides his tongue in tiny swirling motions around the base of the glans, listening out for Hypnos' mewls and squeaks. It's not that Zagreus has never attended to another phallus—just not one that's real flesh and attached to someone so loud and wanton. _This_ experience is new to him, and his enthusiasm appears to command his body, jolting him with currents of arousal over and over again until he's tempted to get himself off by rutting against the covers. 

Zagreus remembers well what’s been done to him before. He remembers what he'd liked about it, doing his best to replicate this for his bedmate. At the very least, he knows to mind his teeth. He can feel Hypnos tensing up around the middle as he starts to bob his head, the sleep god making meagre attempts to buck his hips and push himself deeper into the tight warmth of Zagreus' mouth. Hypnos' cues betray a war between his needs; he seems to be urging Zagreus to quicken the pace, yet his fingers scrabble against Zagreus' own, as though begging Zagreus to tighten his grip on Hypnos' thighs and restrain him from thrusting. 

Zagreus is a natural at teasing. Hypnos feels his sanity trickling away like grains of sand, like he might spontaneously ascend into an unknown dreamscape. His hands close around Zagreus' fingers, squeezing them to remind himself —he isn't asleep. The prince sucks and fondles him with _such_ great care. Even the way Zagreus thumbs the slit of his cock—mindful of his calloused hands—is remarkably attentive. There's a touch of the performative, like he enjoys being watched. He tilts his head, lifting his eyes up to meet Hypnos' while bearing down on his cock, engulfing Hypnos' engorged length in that addictive preternatural inferno. Hypnos has to close his eyes before he comes from the sight of himself slowly sliding in and out of Zagreus' mouth, slick with Zagreus' spittle and his own precum. It feels too good to be over this soon. No one he's coupled with before has swallowed him down with such obsessive focus on his pleasure. Zagreus holds his hips steady with bruising force, spurred on by his broken murmurs of encouragement, gasps of _yes_ , _don't stop_ , _please_. 

And Zagreus can _tell_ , ever observant of the signs that Hypnos is getting close: the shaky whimpers, his belly growing taut, his balls drawn up tight and close to his body. The way he kicks his heels against the blankets, writhes against Zagreus’ mouth. Zagreus varies his pace and undermines the predictable yet involuntary responses. He drags Hypnos through transports of bliss with firm strokes of his hand, swirls of his tongue, edges him ever closer to the brink without letting him reach the precipice. 

When Zagreus stops—and not without a final, longing lick—Hypnos wants to break down, shuddering and weeping, uncertain if he's lamenting the loss, or from relief. He's misty-eyed, on the verge of being overwhelmed, trembling from having been pushed against the limits of his endurance. He finds himself bracketed by Zagreus' arms, feeling tiny under the shelter of the other's muscled shoulders and broad chest. Hypnos is still taller, though. Zagreus' cock is thick and trapped between their bodies, while Hypnos' length is slotted neatly between Zagreus' legs, brushing against the swell of his ass and providing some measure of friction, but not _enough_. 

They lie like this for a while, Zagreus watching Hypnos’ dazed expression give way to one of tenderness. 

“Mmm you're just so _warm_ ,” Hypnos murmurs, “I could fall asleep inside you. I'd love to feel that again? And I don't mean being in your mouth. I mean, you know.” He digs his heels into the covers and cants his hips upwards, slowly rubbing himself against the cleft of Zagreus' ass cheeks. Zagreus' cock twitches against his belly at the suggestion; its owner lets slip the tiniest of whines in the back his throat and regards Hypnos with rapt desire, the pupils of his eyes seeming impossibly huge, two void-like pinpricks that Hypnos thinks could well root him to the spot, freeze him in stone like a gorgon's curse. 

“I thought you'd never ask,” says Zagreus, suddenly deferential and shy. He licks his lips, kiss-swollen, reddened from sucking Hypnos' dick. “I would be honoured. I am… gladdened by your request and hope that my body can bring you to release.”

Hypnos snorts and lets out a peal of laughter. “So polite! That's a lot of words for _please come inside me_.”

“Took you just as many to ask _may I fuck you_ ,” Zagreus points out. 

“Oh. Heh! That's fair,” Hypnos concedes with a knowing smirk. He lifts a hand to Zagreus' face, tilting his chin and angling it so that they can come together for a kiss. Hypnos slips his tongue between Zagreus' lips, persuasive and languid. Zagreus melds himself against Hypnos and hums appreciatively, electrified by his anticipation of the promised act to follow, jittery and restless and feeling very much at the mercy of the tingles running along his spine. He's aching for it, hard and straining against Hypnos, glistening drops of precum pooling on Hypnos' stomach beneath him. His need is a clawing, feral thing in his chest, threatening to drown out his surroundings. He could probably get himself off right here and now, rub himself to completion against Hypnos' body without even wrapping a hand around his own cock. 

He notices what sounds like the scraping of earthenware upon tiled stone, though in his lust-saturated haze, it seems to come from very far away. He gradually arrives at the realisation that Hypnos is directing the source of the sound. The god of sleep is summoning an ornate jar from somewhere behind the pallet, lazily waving an outstretched hand to guide it across the floor towards them. Of course he would do just that. Of course he'd have a whole jar of oil, not just a little corked vial of it. 

“Up on your knees for me,” Hypnos is saying, requesting this of Zagreus in his lilting, sing-song voice. Zagreus complies, and Hypnos adjusts himself to the new position, levering himself into a half-sit before Zagreus. With a casual flick of the forefinger, Hypnos flips the lid off the jar of oil and levitates a small wooden dipper into the oil contained within. 

Zagreus sucks in a sharp gasp at the first dab of oil between his legs. Hypnos has attempted a courtesy and warmed a shallow handful of it in his palm, but there isn't very much that can come close to matching Zagreus' body heat. The touch of the liquid still comes as a shock, cold against his skin at first, then rapidly heating to his temperature. The faintest scent of something herbal and fragrant drifts through the air. Hypnos is slowly massaging him, spreading the viscous oil around his entrance, stroking over the tight puckered hole. Zagreus braces himself against Hypnos' shoulder with one hand and absent-mindedly twines fingers into the sleep god's hair with the other. The eye mask set atop Hypnos' curls is less unnerving than it should be; Zagreus almost finds its unblinking stare comforting, curious and not unkind. _Cute._

“I want you to know that this is the prettiest shaft I have _ever_ seen,” Hypnos says, brushing a fleeting kiss to Zagreus' cock. “So strange, and _ruddy_ , and gorgeous. You know, Zag? I'd like to give it a good, proper treat with my mouth someday.” 

The odd compliment sends a shudder through its recipient, and Zagreus' length twitches in response. He hopes that his reaction is a satisfactory answer, far too distracted by the mental image of Hypnos' wet lips wrapped around his cock, cheeks hollowing as he sucks in earnest. Zagreus' thoughts are nebulous, flighty things that won't come together, falling further apart when the tip of a probing finger slips inside him, breaches the tight ring of muscle. His breath snags, the bright, burning surge of his _want_ beating against his ribs. He tenses up for a bit, then pushes out a measured exhalation through his nose as he adjusts to the intrusion. This isn't at all foreign to him, although it has been a while since he'd last had this. Fortunately, Hypnos doesn't seem inexperienced, confident and steady as he works his forefinger into Zagreus, sliding it in until his knuckles are pressed up against the flesh of Zagreus' buttocks. 

“Gods,” Zagreus manages to gasp out. “I— _darkness,_ it feels great—” 

And Hypnos begins to move, rocking his finger in and out of Zagreus, opening him up with maddening patience. Hypnos' fingers are just so _long_ , slender but not at all dainty in their ministrations. Hypnos nuzzles against the bold trail of hair that marks out a line over and down Zagreus' belly, his parted lips huffing out teasing breaths within distance of the other's erection, but not touching it. “Zag, you're going to be such a tight fit,” Hypnos says. “Bet you can't wait to feel me stretch you wide, huh.”

Zagreus makes an affirmative noise, head thrown back so far that his wreathe drips sparks down his shoulders and onto his back. 

“Oh, _that's it,_ ” Hypnos says, appreciating how his own work has rendered Zagreus speechless. 

A second finger joins the first. When Hypnos curls his digits into the deep and rhythmic strokes, Zagreus has to stop himself from crying out and keeling over. Hypnos is insistently rubbing against that particular spot inside him with the pads of his fingers. The passage of his leisurely thrusts is made slick by oil, angled _just right_ and making sparks blossom behind Zagreus' eyelids when pressure is applied. It produces a sensation that had been lying dormant in his memory, along with the passing idea that it seems absurd to let someone else access this part of him, so private and close to the core of his being. Yet, Zagreus has always found that he is most aroused when he leaves his pleasure at the mercy of another person. He had all but forgotten that such a deft, clever little series of movements could be his undoing. And he would die a thousand deaths if he had to, to feel it again. 

His vision blurs; a confused _ah_ escapes him as he blinks away the moisture that's mysteriously gathered at the corners of his eyes. 

“Hey,” Hypnos calls out quietly, noticing that Zagreus is beginning to sway against him. He draws his fingers out and hugs Zagreus' thighs to steady the prince, heedless of the streak of wetness his hand leaves upon the other's skin. His voice is almost timid, a stark contrast to the thrusting of his fingers just moments ago. He'd been so certain, and very bold. “Uhm, Zagreus? H-hello? I need you to be present for the main event.” 

Zagreus huffs out a shaky laugh at Hypnos' concern, while finding himself caught off guard by a wave of affection for the sleep god. 

“ _Mmpph,_ haha, didn't someone once say that it's the journey that matters? Uhh, was that someone you?” 

He's clear-headed enough to jest, so Hypnos smacks his ass in answer. 

The playful slap rings out sharply in the small bedchamber, refreshing Zagreus' senses in a way that is not unpleasant and reminds him of the welcome relief he gets when he dunks his head underwater in a fountain chamber. 

“I'm lying down,” Zagreus states simply, “before my legs buckle under me.” He knows himself well, knows he's capable of withstanding far more than this, but Hypnos doesn't seem like he'd get off on wresting every last bit of control from his bedmate. On the contrary, Hypnos appears to like it more when Zagreus shamelessly ingratiates himself with him, and Zagreus is more than pleased to oblige. He flops heavily onto his back, knees drawn towards his body, just enough to provide a glimpse of his lubricated entrance between the shadows of his thighs.

Hypnos is on all fours, leaning over Zagreus and cutting the least imposing silhouette that Zagreus has ever had this close to his person. 

The fiery leaves of Zagreus’ wreath are bright enough to cast a nimbus around himself and Hypnos. The light filters through Hypnos’ colourless eyelashes, setting them aglow. “Pretty,” Zagreus comments, lifting his hands to cup Hypnos’ face and caress the hollows of his cheekbones, the dark creases under his eyes. Hypnos _preens_ , leans into his touch like a domesticated creature, trusting and docile. Then the god of sleep is reaching for more oil, coating his own length with it, pumping himself into a fisted hand a few times to spread the liquid evenly. 

It's torturous for Zagreus to entertain the thought that this scene could have played out very differently, with Hypnos riding him, bouncing on his cock, Zagreus fucking into him from beneath. He's so greedy for Hypnos, wants to have him in every way imaginable. And just as tumultuous and excruciating is his need for Hypnos to have him. 

“You’ll tell me if it hurts too much, won’t you?” Hypnos asks as he positions himself in front of Zagreus, lining up the head of his slicked length with Zagreus’ hole. And Zagreus nods, biting back his reply of _but what if I like it_ ; they can figure it out before the next time, if there is a next time. 

Hypnos pushes into Zagreus with a groan of relief upon his lips. Shallow thrusts at first, then rolling his hips slowly to get the other accustomed to his cock. He's not by any means huge, but he's _proportionate_ to his height, with a little more girth and length in comparison to Zagreus. And Zagreus is no stranger to being with larger bedmates. He relishes the punishing stretch, the feeling of being stuffed full with cock. The head of Hypnos' erection glides over that pleasure-hungry spot inside of Zagreus, unintentional bumps and nudges against it pulling fractured and needy cries from the prince. 

Whispered words of praise lap against Zagreus' awareness, a constant string of murmurs, peppered with moans and gasps of longing, telling him nonsensical, pretty things, like how—

_You've been so good this whole time, you're such a tasty little morsel, wanna eat you up._ A strange giggle like the tinkle of breaking glass. _Zag, hn, you feel so good, can hardly wait—_

Hypnos doesn't stop until he's fully sheathed inside Zagreus, a smug smile on his face when he finally bottoms out and carefully rests his body on the prince's, lying almost chest to chest with him, nose brushing against Zagreus' cheek. Zagreus stifles a moan, impatient. His nails lightly rake down Hypnos' back. He grabs the other's ass to pull him forwards, rocking Hypnos' hips against his own body as though trying to take the sleep god even deeper. Zagreus feels about ready to combust from the myriad sensations; the sure, lengthy strokes of Hypnos inside him, the initial shocks where his bare, glowing feet touch Hypnos' sides, stroking against the coolness of the other's skin. He has never been able to discern much pressure or texture past his ankles, but the heat of his body is most concentrated there, where he is sensitive to fluctuations in temperature. 

The way Zagreus' thighs twitch in response to those accidental brushes have not escaped Hypnos' notice. 

Hypnos rests more of his weight upon the prince's body, and Zagreus feels like he might fold in two, legs spread wide and his soles almost parallel to the ceiling. Zagreus is flexible, his physique easily accepting what would contort another's, honed by the constant exertion during his travails. And Hypnos is surprisingly strong despite his lanky appearance and narrow shoulders, muscled in a way that's all lean and fluid lines, like the bow Coronacht. 

Hypnos turns his head. He briefly leans his face against one of Zagreus' feet, then grabs it by the ankle and rests it at the juncture of his neck. He braces himself against Zagreus’ calf and thigh with the length of his arm, pushing the prince into an off-kilter position. Sudden temperature differences, when he is vulnerable and unprepared, make Zagreus want to scream. The flames on his feet and his laurel wreath whip up into the air as though they wish to leap out and set fire to their surroundings. They won’t hurt Hypnos, who only smiles to watch them dance. As if that isn't enough, Hypnos snaps his hips. Without so much as a warning, he drives himself balls-deep into Zagreus and makes full use of the leverage granted to him by their new positions. 

“ _Nhh!_ Aaa—!” Zagreus does cry out this time. 

There’s nothing but the white-hot nucleus of his pleasure, the steady sounds of flesh slapping together at the edge of his awareness. He hardly registers that he’s brought a hand to his mouth to muffle his groans, biting down hard over his knuckles. The room is a whirl of colours. Hypnos has very deliberately angled himself to pound against that sweet spot this time, sending wave upon wave of mounting pressure tearing through Zagreus with each thrust. Zagreus is definitely leaking now, his cock is _dripping_ , unbearably neglected. It wouldn’t take much— 

All he needs— All he needs is just—

He heaves out a plaintive, breathy _please_ , and Hypnos knows just what he's asking for. The sleep god's long fingers curl to make a loose fist around Zagreus’ cock, tugging and stroking in time to his thrusts and coating Zagreus’ length in the prince’s own slick. 

_Gods. Gods!_

Zagreus is panting noisily, getting louder and more vocal until his cries are almost shouts. For a moment, his mind goes blissfully blank. Then, everything fractures—scatters into countless fragments before converging once more, explosively. His entire body goes taut and he throws his head back against the covers, eyes squeezed shut. With a shameless yelp, he comes hard into Hypnos' hand. Cum pulses hotly over himself, trickling down into the thatch of dark, wiry hair that crowns his length. A last spurt sends thick droplets splattering against his own chest. 

Hypnos wipes off his own sticky hand on the blankets so that he can cling to the prince. He thrusts into Zagreus with long and deep strokes, making a string of needy whines and groans as he moves. 

“Go on,” Zagreus gasps out his encouragement against Hypnos' shoulder. “Sate yourself in me.” He's dangerously close to overstimulation, but pleasure is pleasure, whether it soothes or it jolts. His teeth scrape against Hypnos' skin and he bites, sucks hard, bruising the flesh. He squeezes himself around Hypnos as though to milk his climax from him, and Hypnos does come, emptying himself into Zagreus with a fervent, whimpering cry. The sleep god collapses against him, and Zagreus hugs Hypnos tight through the last shudders of his orgasm. 

“Whew. Oh. Blood and Darkness,” Zagreus says breathlessly. He sounds _shattered_. 

“Yeurgh. Sticky,” Hypnos replies, gingerly sliding himself out of Zagreus.

They're both still breathing hard. The silence is broken up only by the rush of their breaths, in time to the rise and fall of their chests. Zagreus feels tender and stretched at the place where his and Hypnos' bodies had joined, but the ache is dull and sweet, and would incite a sense of yearning to be filled up again if he let himself desire it. He mumbles an apology as he begins to relax his tensed up muscles, allowing the rest of Hypnos' spend to spill from his hole, to dribble onto the covers under him in thin rivulets. Hypnos just kisses him—a lazy peck on the lips, devoid of fire, gentle and reassuring. 

Hypnos has levitated an ewer over to where they are. He busies himself with a towel that seems to have come from nowhere, folding it in half and dampening it to wipe Zagreus' chest and abdomen, his softening cock, the areas around his thighs and his buttocks. Zagreus winces at the strangeness of the towel's texture as it drags across his bare skin, sucks in a hiss from behind his teeth at the touch of it, so rough and cold. He'll never get used to being cleaned and dried in this way, but it isn't so unpleasant to partake in such small, considerate acts of intimacy. The moisture sizzles against his body, steam rising up from him in humid clouds. 

“You don't have to do this for me,” Zagreus murmurs, embarrassed. But Hypnos is nearly finished. 

“Ah- _huh-huh_ ,” Hypnos retorts around a yawn. “You'd deny me this, after… _all_ we've already done? It's what I like,” he admits. “Feeling like I'm being useful to someone, finally! The way you held on to me, when you, uh, I felt… important, Zag. I felt wanted. Y'know what that's like? Always being _needed_ by the ones you want, instead of wanted?”

“Hypnos… I can't say I have any expertise in telling the two apart,” Zagreus tells him. “They often feel like the same thing.” In consolation, he takes the towel from Hypnos and unfolds it, using the cleaner side to wipe down Hypnos' front, indeed sticky where he'd lain against Zagreus earlier, where he'd pumped himself into Zagreus and made a mess of himself, slick with oil and his own ejaculate. 

After what seems like aeons have passed, Hypnos speaks. “I wasn't truly looking for an answer, Zag. Doesn't upset me that you don't have one.” Sleep Incarnate looks small and drowsy again, still naked, curled in on himself. No longer the coquettish bedmate who had shared with Zagreus the wanton pleasures of the flesh. “There's just so much sameness all around, huh! Parchmentwork and shades, shift in and shift out. Imagine getting used to that drudgery, then along comes someone who's all _ooh, here's some forbidden nectar for you! Sorry for what I did!_ Someone so kind to you that it _hurts_ so much, he cuts through the sameness, he might as well have run you through with a sword!”

“You wouldn’t really want to be stabbed with a sword.” 

“Oh no, no, I don’t want to know what it would feel like,” Hypnos agrees. His voice no longer carries the melodious lilt that chases his words like a zephyr. “Well, haha, not if something is actually trying to kill me.” 

Zagreus is learning to tell when Hypnos is being avoidant, when he feels unsafe and overwhelmed; he retreats into slumber, perhaps making for himself a space that demands from him nothing at all, wrapped inside that cloak of his. Hiding behind a buffer of somnolence is a temptation that is always within his reach.

“I’ve got nothing on my schedule,” Zagreus says quietly. “Uhm, I don’t even have a schedule. I don’t even know how to keep time.”

Hypnos scoots off to the edge of the pallet and hops down from it. He hovers before Zagreus and makes lethargic sweeping motions with his hands, pulling the topmost layer of blankets out from under Zagreus without touching anything. Zagreus is hardly given the chance to find his bearings; Hypnos violently jerks the blankets away, and Zagreus is rolled against them and onto the next layer underneath. He grumbles, laughs, allows himself to be tumbled about with Hypnos’ collection of pillows, presses his face into the covers. They smell clean and fresh, without the faint traces of muskiness from their earlier activities.

“If you stay,” Hypnos says, “You’ll be the first since my brother who has…”

“I would like to, very much. I _want_ to.”

Hypnos beams. “I won't keep you long!” He promises. “When you wake, you'll be at your sharpest, all shiny and raring to go again.”

The god of sleep lies down beside Zagreus, nuzzling into the dip between his shoulder and his chest. Not the softest pillow he’s had by far, but Hypnos can fall asleep anywhere. And Zagreus’ warmth has a steady, pulsating quality to it, rolling off him in unhurried waves, caressing and enveloping Hypnos in it. 

So different from Thanatos.

Zagreus is stroking Hypnos’ hair, idle fingers tentatively tugging at the straps of his eye mask as though to undo them, met only by Hypnos slapping at his hand and making tiny snarling—but not threatening—noises. “Maybe you’ll lend that to me one of these days—uhh—nights,” Zagreus says. “Does it help with falling asleep? I can’t do it the way you can, just doze off and begin snoring.” 

“Huh! It’s not in the mask! Don’t be daft, Zag.”

“Fine then, keep your secrets,” Zagreus deadpans. “And I will lie awake with my own dismal thoughts, plagued by waking nightmares of my failures, my innumerable deaths and all the memories they have left on my body playing over and over again in my mind.” 

“That really isn’t it!” Hypnos huffs, affronted. “It’s in here!” 

_Ohh._

Hypnos summons his cloak, which unfurls over them both, bringing the scent of the void with it—the same abyssal pull that Zagreus had felt while sitting in it, the same fluttering, _paradoxical_ hollow vapour that fills the realm of Primordial Chaos. The cloak is weighted under its padding, as if heavy with Darkness sewn into the pockets of its quilting, like a hug from Mother Nyx. The pressure is such that the cloak molds itself to their bodies, shifting in tandem with every minute movement, soothing all worries away with a gentle kneading that flows with the natural rhythm of their breathing. 

“Wow,” Zagreus says, an admiring sigh. 

“So, I can speed you along into sleep! Or you can figure the rest out on your own.”

“Put me to sleep, please.” Zagreus is bashful, his cheeks pink. 

Hypnos presses a soft kiss to his temple, and Zagreus gives himself up to oblivion. He drifts off with Hypnos half-sprawled across his body, clinging to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanatos hears about them, and wishes he hadn’t. 

Megaera is the one who brings him the news, drily reporting the facts while she leans against the balustrade of the southwest balcony, practicing her whipping technique over the waters of the Styx. Each lash cracks through the air with perfect form, creating but the tiniest of dimples when the tip of the business end flicks against the river's surface. She has been spending her breaks in the lounge. It's where the most ancient of the shades mill about, having chosen to haunt the halls of the House in lieu of standing in line to await their judgement. The head chef’s simple fare no longer penetrates their rudimentary senses, stripped as they are of their mortal shells. And so they feast on gossip, trading their rationed stories. 

Megaera has ears, and a taste for information. 

A particularly wicked lash of the whip finds an unfortunate target; a knucklehead stops moving, floats belly up in the crimson water. The sight begins to sicken her; she's not Alecto, who revels in violence as a conduit for her boundless anger. Megaera's administering of pain is calculated. She studies the anatomy of her charges—never victims—smashing joints and shattering bones, reducing them to smears of viscera, learning to break them down efficiently. 

She's… not being deliberate right now. The decision to seek Thanatos out and share her findings with him was borne from a gnawing sense of indignation. Although, she'd sooner pop open a bottle of nectar with her sisters than admit this. 

“Your thoughts on this… development?” She turns around to face Death Incarnate, after she's done narrating what she's heard from ambient shade-talk.

Thanatos is _livid_. Megaera has been his colleague long enough to recognise the subtle undercurrents of his stoic exterior. The twinging muscles in his jaw from the tension of clenched teeth, his piercing golden eyes narrowed just a fraction, gaze taking on a frightening keenness. 

“It would do my brother well to hold others at bay and distance them from his influence. He is here to learn, and to… atone for his irresponsible behaviour. He does not serve the House of Hades only to be a nuisance. An inconvenience.”

“And do you truly think Zagreus blameless?” Magaera inquires, snapping a section of her whip taut between her hands. 

“Are you interrogating me, Fury? Are we about to take turns listing out his flaws? Or, are you perhaps eager to defend him yourself? Do not think I believe you would have no cause to do so, for all the challenge you pose to his… escapes.”

“I'm a _professional_ , Thanatos. Whatever Zagreus and I have done in the past shall have no bearing on our present and highly circumstantial meetings. Nothing will stay my whip. Can you say the same for yourself? That your actions do not interfere with your duties?”

Thanatos is silent. His grip tightens around the haft of his scythe, knuckles going white. 

“Look…” Megaera brushes the back of an ear as though to tuck an errant strand of hair behind it, though her grooming is, as always, impeccable. Thanatos knows that it's one of her few tells. “Let's skip the rigmarole, Than. I just wanted to know how you're holding up. Watching him do this to himself can't be easy. And yet I remember how envious you were when the shade of Achilles would zip down the halls with little Zag on his shoulders. When you were much younger. When Zagreus was still a child. He's always been… different. That he stands out draws your attention now.”

The low huskiness of her voice soothes Thanatos, but it's far from a balm for his anger. “Urgh,” he groans, “Perceptive. I thought I was getting through to him. I don't… condone what he does. I don't understand it. But opposing him just makes him fight back even harder. It's such a… mortal-like quality, to act in defiance of the Fates.”

“So you humour him?” Megaera's arched eyebrow speaks a language of its own, succinct and eloquent. “At your own expense?” 

“Perhaps it's nothing more than a little experiment of mine, Megaera. To see if Lord Hades will notice the already lengthy list of backlogged tasks get even longer.”

Megaera scoffs. “That self-abasing sarcasm is an ugly look on you.”

 _Watch it get even uglier, then,_ Thanatos doesn't say aloud. “I know you mean well,” he tells her curtly. “Thank you.”

Then, he's gone.

—

Thanatos doesn't go looking for Zagreus for a while. 

His work keeps him occupied, and he relishes the sickness from being up on the surface for prolonged periods without respite. Chthonic entities such as himself have been simultaneously feared, revered, and repulsed by mortals. There is a stench—a miasma—upon the surface, which lingers wherever mortals expect Death, especially where they do not intend to go willingly. He holds the nausea inside him like a ghastly token, a self-rebuke. The ongoing war and the winter without end has confounded the inhabitants of the surface and hastened many a journey to the Underworld. 

Thanatos is usually numb to the cold, but there's something _wrong_ with this frost; it reeks of Olympian divinity in great excess, and of menace—prickling along his skin like millions of hoar-tipped claws. The goddess Demeter was angered some time ago, and this icy ravaging of the mortal realm is probably her tirade against whatever—or whoever—is responsible. And yet, the Fates must have ordained it, or this ridiculous amount of premature deaths would not have been his to administer. 

He swings his scythe to cleave spirit from body, holds his gauntleted hand over fragile faces to extinguish breaths and leave his charges with no choice but to abandon their mortal cages. (Without Hypnos' cooperation, far fewer mortals go in their sleep.)

His list grows ever longer; the work never ends. 

Thanatos is fast, but Hermes is faster. He has to be, with messages to be delivered and souls to be ushered along. The other psychopomp seems to treat their interconnected jobs as reason enough to engage in friendly sport, sometimes racing the god of death from one assignment to the next, wings all aflutter. Though, more crucial to their relationship—Hermes' work ethic is solid, which Thanatos can respect. 

Hermes is talkative, but courteous. In all the centuries they've known one another, he has never expected Thanatos to respond to his chatter, nor does he bring up overly stimulating topics when they do cross paths. They're mostly reports from the field, or updates from Olympus which Thanatos frankly couldn't care less about. The wing-footed god's demeanour is light like his tread, his confidence and energy refreshing. Thanatos has had few reasons to abhor his company. Thanatos has never told him to be silent. 

But he really wishes that Hermes would shut up now. 

“—so then you'll pardon my indiscretion and _just this once I hope you'll indulge my curiosity!_ Is it all true, to the extent that the rumours say they are? The Prince of your realm has been the talk of mine—you'd have to have clipped my wings for me to've missed the news, and have I been holding it in for _aeons_ —that he's currently involved with _your brother, Hypnos?_ Even Aphrodite could not have seen that coming!” 

Thanatos finds himself wanting to clip Hermes' wings, feeling utterly betrayed. “I don't… There isn't anything in particular that I wish to comment on… concerning that,” he grits out, a pang of nausea sweeping through him. Bile, or its chthonic equivalent, rises in his throat. 

“Oh! Well! Just between the both of us, I was rather rooting for you, you know. You've got a good head on those shoulders, and you work yourself _to the very bone_ , as mortals would say. By the way, don't you deny that you have been paying visits to that young prince of yours, old friend. My work takes my own speedy presence further down sometimes, and Death leaves an unmistakable mark wherever you've been.”

The queasy feeling in Thanatos' gut intensifies at the word _friend_. “I appreciate the concern,” he tells Hermes, recognising the rambling for what it is. 

The other immortal taps him on the shoulder, as if in fleeting consolation, then leaves. 

Thanatos has never considered what it means to be, or to have, a friend. 

Almost all he's ever known is his duty, what is required of him; what he'd been born to do, the role he'd been shaped to perform. Terms which denote connections any less vital than tasks relating to his work are fickle things. Unnecessary. _Friend_ seems to belong to the world of the temporary and the frivolous. A world inhabited by creatures such as mortals, who, by virtue of their very brief and limited lifespans, find every possible way to intertwine the threads of their very short existences. 

If all one requires to become entangled in the personal details of another's life is simply familiarity, and time, then… Is Megaera a friend? Zagreus? Nothing makes sense. 

With one exception.

—

Thanatos materialises at the entrance to Hypnos' dwelling, having finally taken leave of his post. A break is long overdue. For someone who is near constantly in a state of doing overtime, logging his time away as off-duty seems meaningless. He submits the official documentation anyway, to make up for the lapses he's accrued from having abandoned his post to track down Zagreus. A team from Elysium will take over for the duration of his absence, bearing permits and instruments imbued with his touch. Those braggarts are always starving to prove themselves to Lord Hades, and perhaps for a chance to walk the earth of their realm of origin once more.

The surface has all manner of riches to offer, yet Thanatos has never found himself captivated by mortal architecture, nor by the geographical features of their world. 

The superficial veneers of mortal lifestyles are inextricably bound to the taint of their fear; they are terrified of Death, and therefore wage wars across continents, constructing monuments to assert their claims over corporeal soil as though they can stave off the inevitable. Nothing can remove the stain—the scorching light that tails the chariot of Helios cannot bleach it clean, nor can the gnawing cold of Demeter’s wrath. 

Small wonder that Thanatos can only begin to fathom a fraction of what they deem beautiful when elements of the surface are mirrored in his birthplace. Though, he's never stopped to consider if it's really the mortals who mimic the gods, rather than the realm of Hades that is fashioned after their customs and establishments. Ultimately, it matters not. Thanatos has never been able to appreciate a surface world without humans. They'd already been there long before his conception. They'd been dying since before he was born. Their belief in his existence, as a symbolic entity, is what has him entrenched in their cultural milieu. Now, they cannot die without him.

Hypnos' abode is closer to being a grotto than a cavern, appearing as a little dent at the base of a towering rock face, like a titan had pressed a thumb into the stone. Poplar trees stand sentry on either side of the entrance, bracketing a field containing an embarrassment of poppies. The Lethe pours forth from within the grotto, bisecting the field, and the river's babbling waters churn up a fine spray for the plants. There are crude shelves hewn into the interior, upon which rest untidy piles of clutter, comprising everything from silly trinkets to ingredients for poultices and salves. Grooves have been carved into the largest of the stalactites. From these, basketfuls of poppy seed pods and petals are strung from ropes. There is no shortage of seating in this home—more chairs and chaises than one could possibly need, made cosy with colourful cushions and throws. A slice of an enormous tree trunk rests upon trestles. On this table, various implements are strewn. Cauldrons and alembics. Mismatched sets of mortars and pestles. 

The vibrant energy seems to contradict the very nature of the one who resides here. Incongruous though it may be, this cave is where the god of sleep goes in his dreams. On certain days (or nights), Hypnos returns to this dwelling in person. Here, he revisits his old, familiar crafts, among them the process of refining the powerful infusions he creates from poppy extracts. 

He is home now. Thanatos cannot miss the bright red of his garb, even among all the mess. Hypnos is dressed simply. The skirts of his long chiton are still draped over his legs, but his clothing is free of the usual ornamentation—missing are his metal bands and bracers, his belt, and the round disc bearing the insignia of the House of Hades. 

“How strange it is to see you awake,” Thanatos greets his brother. He doesn't move into the cave, remaining where he is on the edge of the entrance, among the poppies. 

“How strange it is to see you at all!” Hypnos replies. The grin on his face is askew—a sneer, one that is not at all jubilant. 

There is a swollen silence in which they appraise one another, the unspoken misgivings growing thick and heavy between them. The Lethe mocks them, laughing as its currents rush along, dashing against stone. 

“It's the surface again, huh?” Hypnos finally asks. “We're not so different after all, Than! You stay up there _way_ too much, I get locked down below _way_ too long. And then we're poisoned by the jobs we do all the same, you by overwork, and me by boredom. Haha! How funny is that! Don't you think that's something we could have sat down to talk about, over a nice, cold bottle of nectar?” 

“I'd prefer it warm,” comes the terse answer. “I've had enough of the cold, brother.”

“Aww, I know you have. I sensed you on your way.” Hypnos leaves his cloak behind and levitates over, stretching his legs out as he parodies the action of ambulation; dainty tiptoeing at first, then moving around Thanatos in a hopping, fluid jig. He twirls up behind his twin and drapes long arms over Thanatos' shoulders. Teasing fingertips poke at his brother's cheek, playing with his parted bangs, drawing his hood back to expose the back of his neck. Thanatos shudders at the touch of bare skin upon his own. The Darkness that each of the twins has within them sings out at the contact, a low, roaring hum of coalescent desire. They've been apart from each other for so long. 

Thanatos says nothing, but he conceals his scythe—a monumental gesture in itself. 

Hypnos crows in delight to watch it disappear, pawing at Death Incarnate's gauntlet and his sword as though imploring him to put them away too. 

Thanatos doesn't, so Hypnos contents himself with touching all the trappings and embellishments of Thanatos' clothes. The wings of his pauldron. The ornamental pectorals that rest upon his collar. The gorget is snug around his brother's neck. Hypnos giggles and twines himself around Thanatos like a serpent, flicking his tongue out to lick at the other's throat, where skin meets the border of the metal around his neck. He curls a hand around the hilt of his brother's sword, stroking up and down its length with a meaningful look. 

Thanatos may be able to negotiate the quickening of his breath, but the call of the Darkness pleads on his behalf, begging for his inward distress to be alleviated. 

Hypnos can feel just how desperately he needs it. The cry for help thrums against the confines of his body, warped and maddened. 

“Something bothering you, Than?” Hypnos asks. His voice is sweet and melodious. Light. Conversational. The twins are standing face to face now, and their identical heights force Thanatos to meet Hypnos' gold-flecked eyes. Hypnos wants to hear the confession spill from his brother's lips, like a libation. Like a salve for the ragged wound of his absence. 

“I—” Thanatos clenches his fist, digging his nails into his palms. “I know what you've been doing with the prince. With Zagreus. He's been seen in your company, entering your chambers.”

“Oh, oh, brother. Can I not have visitors? Can I not spend my breaks as I please?” Hypnos pouts, feigning innocence. “Did you think I'd be punishing myself instead, withering away in the dreadful, _dreadful_ tedium of my work while you gripe behind my back about me being _utterly incompetent?_ ”

“I know you take your pleasures wherever you may find them, Hypnos. But this is clearly out of line. You have to know your station. I am not being facetious about this matter. We are servants to the House of Hades, and I will not have you forgetting your place and thinking it appropriate to seduce its master's heir.”

“And what if he came to me first? What if he _wanted_ me, Than? Do you have any idea, huh? How, how—” _Unlike he is to you, who only ever needs, but never wants._

“Enough!” 

The word, uttered as a curse, feels like a slap. Hypnos chews hard on his lower lip, his eyes growing oddly shiny in the ethereal light of Elysium. “I missed you, Than,” he says softly. “A whole lot! I was afraid you'd abandoned me. Zag is so beautiful, and kind, and such a _stupid, stubborn goof_ , but he's not you. He's all hot and bright, and he feels _so, very, very good_ , but he's still not you.”

“And you think you honour him with a comparison to me?” Thanatos is incredulous, fuming. His outrage rolls off him in dark waves. “You would lie with him, and then dare to besmirch such a privileged union with your insults?” 

Hypnos blinks. “Huh! But he knows. I told him about us, and he chose to stay. He doesn't mind, Than! I… I think he fancies you himself.” 

Thanatos closes his eyes, feeling dizzy. “That was not what I— that was not— _urgh_ , what?” 

“I know, right!” Hypnos exclaims. He's sympathetic, and also perking up. “Hard to believe our prince has grown up into someone who finds sullen individuals like _you_ attractive! You're so serious when you talk, you hardly ever smile, and you don't ever bring gifts! It's just work, work, work with you! All the time!” 

_I don't… ever bring gifts? But… Zagreus… I gave him that butterfly… to strengthen his resolve… Although…_

The god of death kneads the crease between his brows, willing all of this to just… go away. Even for an immortal, there's always a first time for every thought. And right now, for the first time, Thanatos considers dipping a goblet into the Lethe and draining the contents in one long draught. 

“Hypnos, I still cannot understand how dedication to one's work could ever be construed as something unacceptable. To deviate from my assignments is not something I can be proud of. _Slacking_ the way you are wont to do is not becoming of those who serve the House. You risk our reputations, and in doing so, you risk Mother Nyx's.”

“Uhm, Than? Is that how you feel about yourself when you come back down? When you stick it to a bunch of wretches and bring Zagreus fresh centaur hearts? You do all that for his sake and then the guilt eats you up?” 

“Stop.”

“I can't make it better, Than. But I know what you're here for.” Hypnos sounds defeated. Fragile. “Take what you need?” 

Thanatos grabs him by his upper arms, too sudden for Hypnos to flinch out of his grasp, firm enough to bruise. “I'm sorry,” Thanatos murmurs, but doesn't let him go. He rests his forehead against Hypnos', soothing his brother, while hiding from his gaze. “I should have asked if you still take pleasure from rough handling. It's been a long time since… For me, at least… We…” 

Hypnos shushes him, raising a hand to stroke his brother's hair. Thanatos leans into the touch, letting out a soft moan before he can tighten his throat to cut it off completely. 

The tension inside of him feels like it's coming to a head, pulled taut to splintering, as though it will snap at any moment and tear his very soul to rags in the process. Then, Hypnos is kissing him, daubing light closed-lipped brushes against his mouth, which remains resolutely pressed shut for fear that he'll swallow his twin whole if he opens it. He lets Hypnos nuzzle against his face, taste his skin, inhale the scent of him which surely carries the odour of the surface, sour and repulsive—

“Brazen!” Thanatos cannot help but marvel at Hypnos' propensity for lewd surprises. Hypnos has guided his brother's hand to rest on his waist, then urged it further downwards over his hips until Thanatos' fingers are skimming over the back of one thigh, coming to rest between Hypnos' legs. 

Under his smooth skirts, he's presumably oiled and prepared himself for Thanatos, held open by his favourite apparatus. Thanatos knows the look of its tapered girth, exactly how wide and deep it sits inside of Hypnos, stretching him out. The flared base of the plug is carved to resemble a flower in full bloom; Thanatos can feel the rounded edges of its petals beneath the thin fabric, bold against his questing hand. He feels his way around through Hypnos' chiton, moving over the pliant flesh of his buttocks and applying a gentle pressure on the petals, pushing against the place where the outward curve of the lascivious blossom meets the thick stem. 

It gratifies Thanatos when Hypnos jerks and makes a sound like a hiccup, clawing at his clothing to pull him closer. Thanatos can't ignore that Hypnos' skirts are now hopelessly tented at the front. 

“Ngh, we can do it right here, in the poppies,” Hypnos is saying. “No one here but us, Than.” No one enters his glade without his express invitation. 

Thanatos trusts him. His answer is in the shedding of all that is decorative and excessive about his clothing, the removal of his fitted pants, leaving only his tunic. He's never liked being completely naked. No matter how much Hypnos has wheedled and pleaded with him to take it off, Thanatos knows that Hypnos would never push. 

In any case, his brother has little to lament about. 

Hypnos sinks to his knees in the field with nothing to separate his body from the give of supple earth and his beloved plants. His red skirts fan out among the red poppies—he is one of them, the most beautiful and flamboyant of them all. Flowers are pressed down under his weight, spelled to bend and withstand crushing. Hypnos wraps his arms around his brother's legs, imploring Thanatos to land and touch his bare feet to the ground. Sleep Incarnate is wide-eyed, his smile unaffected; he looks almost naive. He seems younger all of a sudden, reminding Thanatos of their earlier, fumbling acts of coupling. When they'd already been thousands of years old, but still unrefined and clumsy. 

Truth be told, Thanatos still feels clumsy now, rarely having faith in his own hands. His work demands a delicate touch, but he leaves his craft to be honed by routines and rigidity. 

His brother is the one who has grown to embody the innate elegance and surety of Mother Nyx. As much as Thanatos wishes to have Hypnos learn the value of discipline, he cannot deny that he finds him completely endearing. There's something about his manner that Thanatos will never truly be able to fault, even when he is pestering Thanatos, or merely fast asleep and snoring. In the dark, hidden recesses of Death Incarnate's being, he is wholly defenseless to his twin. It is this vulnerable facet of himself that he conceals, burying it with harsh words and putting up barriers like his refusal to strip himself of his tunic—the last bastion of his modesty. 

Thanatos cannot remember the last time he felt the ground under his feet. Nor under his bottom, his elbows, his back. Hypnos leaves him with no time to consider the textural qualities of their floral mattress, eagerly clambering atop his twin and pressing him down into the flowers. 

It irks Thanatos to be toyed with, to have his pleasure dangled before him as though it were tied on a string; having it be treated like a trifling thing and batted about while he struggles not to lash out with an enraged growl upon his lips. 

And yet it pleases Hypnos to do just that to him. It pleases Hypnos to rub their erections together with both his hands, to stroke them in tandem with a mixture of their precum and his spit. It pleases Hypnos to lick and suck at his brother's chest through the fabric of his tunic, pinching his clothed nipple between his teeth until it pebbles under his merciless tongue. It pleases Hypnos to attend to the other bared one with equal diligence, until both nubs are stiff and sensitive, until Thanatos is very nearly squirming. And it pleases Hypnos to have Thanatos fist handfuls of his hair, no pretence at being tender, on the verge of tearing him away from his body. 

“Hey, uh, mm, I'm testing something,” Hypnos tells him out of the blue, lifting his eyes to look at Thanatos, wiping his lips on the back of a hand. The tilt of Hypnos' head is a conspiratorial gesture which Thanatos recognises. The god of sleep leers at his brother while the latter is considering the proposal; the intensity of Death Incarnate's frown gives away the fact that he is thinking. Before Thanatos can ask for an elaboration, he is interrupted by Hypnos' excitable laugh. “Haha! _You're interested?_ You'll play along with me, huh. It's a new concoction, and in my opinion, I think you'll like it.”

Thanatos jerks his hips, just once, bouncing against Hypnos who is still on top of him. The movement sends a shock rippling through the sleep god's thighs, causing him to clench up tight and jolt the plug inside of him. His eyelashes flutter, a lengthy and shameless whine dragged from his throat.

“You forget yourself, Hypnos,” the god of death says in dulcet tones. “I have not given you an affirmative.”

“Hmm! I forget myself?” Sleep Incarnate challenges him, eyes narrowing until the gold is but a dying glimmer, swallowed by shadows darker than the night. “If only you knew how it wounds me, to hear you talk about me like I'm an inferior, Than. Like a disobedient stranger.” Then he chuckles, bringing his face close to Thanatos', grinning at him. “Or just _maybe,_ I get off on it?”

“Out with it, brother!” Thanatos snaps. “Just tell me what it is. I have to get back to work. I haven't much time to dally here with you.”

Hypnos winks at him. “It'll remind you of _old times_.” 

He sits up, still straddling Thanatos, and begins to draw slow spirals in the air with an outstretched hand. A tarry liquid materialises, flowing in the wake of his lazy motions, suspended in the air. It's yet another of his experimental infusions, synthesised to pluck at the strings of one's subconscious desires and memories, coaxing old and new chords to spring forth and mingle in dreams. He describes it as best as he can to his twin, remarkably serious about his craft, in contrast to the flippant attitude he takes towards his duties in the House. 

Thanatos listens carefully, the lure of procedure and plans making him attentive, calming him. He thrives on guidelines, even when they're Hypnos' instructions and requests, laying out the foreseeable possibilities of what they'll be doing to each other. The circular movements of the shimmering liquid are mesmerising, lulling him into a state of tranquility. He feels in control. He feels a sense of security. 

“Fine,” Thanatos says, when Hypnos is finished. “I agree to try this. But I will have you know, brother, that any moment I sense that either of us is in danger, I will stop.”

“And I'll have you know, I am touched! Those are _such_ noble and well-intentioned words no one has ever said to me before.” Hypnos snaps his fingers, and the infusion is released from his spell, splashing into a chalice which fades into view just in time to contain it. 

“I don't know what you mean,” Thanatos says bluntly. “Though I am indeed aware that you can take care of yourself, and it's impossible to do you any lasting harm, perhaps short of—” 

“Killing me dead?” Hypnos needles him. “Heh, I'd just float up the Styx. Physical harm would be nothing compared to…” He rests his hands over his chest, where a red-blooded heart would pump in his chest, were he a mortal. “It's nothing, brother. I'm glad you're in a protective mood so let's leave it at that, huh.”

Thanatos shakes his head, not comprehending his twin who seems to speak in twists and turns sometimes, losing him when every other statement becomes a riddle. 

Hypnos takes a sip of the concoction from the chalice, then leans down to press his mouth against Thanatos' without swallowing any of the liquid. He cups his brother's jaw, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of Thanatos' lips, beseeching them to part and to form a passage through which he can feed his twin the soporific. Thanatos opens his mouth to a clumsy kiss, and the infusion spills in. It fills his senses with burnt bark, the smoke of war-ravaged earth from the surface, bitter and pungent under a meagre helping of nectar. 

The intimacy of the act sets his veins afire, his skin heating, a flush spreading across his face and his neck. His chest hitches as he drinks from Hypnos, causing a few errant drops to dribble from the corner of his lips. A thin rivulet makes its way down his jaw and drips onto his tunic. Hypnos licks at the trail of spilled liquid, then touches his lips to his twin's again. Thanatos moans, the sound low and gravelly in his throat, goading Hypnos to deepen the kiss and find purchase to rock desperately against him. 

Wistful, Hypnos touches the back of his brother's head where the hair is closely shorn under the longer bits, brushing downwards over the bristly strands until they fade off at the nape of his neck. It'd been so, so much longer, once. Silky and fluid in Hypnos' grasp. 

_I want to remember how we were back then,_ Thanatos hears Hypnos say. The voice is fuzzy around the edges, as though wrapped in layers and layers of humming white noise, warbling its way through each and every one. 

Hypnos feeds his brother another mouthful. Thanatos has to focus on the acrid-sweet taste. The softness of Hypnos' lips may as well be the glowing lifeline tethering Thanatos' soul to his body. 

The liquid searing across his tongue is going to cut him loose. He is going to float away. 

He remembers not to fight, and it almost surprises him that he is amenable to being shaped and moved along by another's current. He is reminded that, under the imposing silhouette of his full garb and the weapon-shaped tools that he brandishes, he is not fearsome and threatening, but uncertain and afraid. He was made to be pliable. After all, it was from Darkness whence he sprang. And Darkness is malleable, powerful, and cautious, always in awe of the danger it may pose to itself.

—

_Thanatos is covering his face with his hands. He peeks out from behind a gap in his fingers, cheeks hot against his palms, stuttering breaths making the rise and fall of his chest erratic. There's not much to be seen aside from glimpses of his brother's wavy locks, crowned by his dusky blue sleep mask and its thousand-fathom stare. Thanatos feels exposed. There's an engulfing wetness—Hypnos is sucking him off. Thanatos is being lavished with alternating sensations of pressure, suction, rhythmic stroking. He's being comforted. Tended to._

_Worshipped._

_He's flustered, yet incredibly aroused by the sight of Hypnos' head bobbing up and down, pincered by his bare thighs._

You're so good at this, _he wants to say._ I should sit up and look at you. _But his bashfulness weighs him down, like rows of sandbags stacked along the banks of a flooding river, holding his words at bay. Tears well up in his eyes instead. His limbs tremble and shake. He rolls his hips weakly; Hypnos is doing most of the work. Hypnos is swallowing him, fucking the tight confines of his own mouth with Thanatos' cock, shoving it hard against the back of his throat. He makes wet, gagging noises but doesn't stop; he's good at this, he knows what he's doing, he can take it._

_Hypnos knows what he is doing, prompting Thanatos to turn around and brace himself against their bed. Thanatos positions himself with his arms arranged like a pair of folded wings against the covers, legs spread, ass thrust right up into the air. He knows he must look obscene, but he can pretend that he no longer inhabits his body when he closes his eyes. In the dark, he becomes a conductor for pleasure, a vessel through which juddering, frantic jets of lust may be poured into, until he spills, overflows._

_There's something he finds horribly titillating about being made to wait, a subtle, unintended humiliation that he both despises and yearns to endure. It makes him vigilant, draws his senses into overdrive, causes the humming Darkness in his veins to throb with a sweet ache. Within this liminal nook, low and indistinct murmurs lap against him._

His hair had been _so_ long. He’d let it grow out past his waist, until the ends reached the top of his hip bones. He hadn’t liked it bound, so it had hung freely about his face and down his back. As it grew, it began to get in his way, so he’d practiced moving in different ways to accommodate the swishing. He’d taught himself to float more gracefully and lean into the momentum of his dances which take him halfway across the world. Even with his hair as short as it is now, his body remembers; the inertia of old habits. Sometimes, he misses having a reason for his poise. 

Thanatos is watching himself. 

Not as Narcissus had, drinking from the superficial reflection of his own beauty. If Narcissus had been paralysed by an unrequited self-love, then Thanatos is saved from that fate by self-doubt. 

His voyeurism is made possible by Hypnos' doing, a shared figment that he may meddle with as he sees fit. It's set in the bedchamber the twins had shared as younger gods. Thanatos could wake himself from this dream with a word, a signal to Hypnos to free him. But he's captivated by what he sees, and he doesn't want to leave. He is both witness and vessel. 

He observes his own long hair fanned out across his shoulders and upper back, spilling over onto the covers. Of course, he is partially clothed. But a puzzling notion crosses his mind. A hunger to know what he looks like under the tunic, how the muscles of his back will flex and ripple as he gyrates his hips and pushes himself back against Hypnos' wicked tongue. He can see Hypnos, though his dream self can't. His twin raises his head and seems to look right at him, as though able to detect his presence within the dream. It's as though Hypnos knows that Thanatos wouldn't change anything about the way that they were, except, perhaps… 

“Take off your tunic,” Death Incarnate urges himself. “You wanted to, but you never did.” 

Take off your tunic, _echoes the darkness. But he's never done it before. Still, when he feels Hypnos' hands upon his thighs, the usual anticipatory silence fractures, quite unceremoniously. “Wait”, Thanatos says. He rolls onto his side and sits up to peel the last of his clothing off, fumbling nervously. He braces himself for Hypnos’ mocking, an affectionate quip of some sort that will nonetheless cut to the quick._

_“Than,” Hypnos says. “Wow! If only you could see yourself.” He throws himself at Thanatos and wraps him in a crushing hug. “I couldn't help it! It's just— Wow! I never thought you want to— In bed! I'm making this all weird now, I think. I should stop!”_

_His twin babbles away, and Thanatos is struck by how overcome with emotion he is, over such a mundane gesture. But it isn't mundane. Lowering the last of his defences for Hypnos is his unspoken gratitude. Hypnos has been here for him all along, attending to his needs, yielding to them like rushes swept low to the ground in a storm. Hypnos has always been whatever Thanatos has needed, filling the rifts left behind every time his confidence is shaken. And Thanatos has always hidden from him, taken his pleasure impersonally, anonymously, shrouding his desire for his brother’s affections in one pale excuse after another._

_“You won’t make me look at you?” Thanatos asks. “I… don’t think I can manage that. For now, at least. I need more time.”_

_“_ Aww, Than! _Only whenever you’re ready? Go ahead and take_ aeons, _or never. There’s nothing I’ll make you do against your will.”_

_Thanatos nods, and leans into Hypnos' embrace when the latter draws him close and buries his face into his neck, veiling his head in the curtain of long, silvery hair. “You'll have to tell me if you're still up for it,” Hypnos is saying. “You can put your tunic back on if that's better for you, but I gotta know if you're in the right frame of mind for us to go on.”_

_Thanatos' blush intensifies, having never retreated in the first place. “I'm fine,” he assures Hypnos. He eases himself out of his brother's arms and takes up the same position as before, prostrating himself, presenting himself to Hypnos._

Thanatos notices that his back is flushed from arousal, the undertones dark and blotchy like the sky at twilight, when the sun has lost its amber hues and is throwing up its last rays in supplication to the clouds. He is truly one of Night Incarnate's own. Darkness and shadows live beneath the radiant veneer of his skin. Hypnos, just a shade lighter with undertones cooler in hue, blushes in similar fashion. 

_He feels less inhibited, unfettered by contrivances. His tunic, in its absence, seems like it had only encumbered him before._

_His brother is kneading his ass, grabbing him firmly to spread his cheeks wide. A frantic noise like a bark escapes Thanatos when he feels something soft and moist dart against him. Hypnos' tongue makes wet passes over his hole, flicking and curling to coax him open. His twin is wanton and messy, and so very tender with him. He drools his spit onto Thanatos, then mouths him with lips slick from the gathered fluid. He moans and hums as he lavishes Thanatos with attention. Slow, butterfly kisses, trailed downwards from the base of his tailbone. Furtive little licks. And long, lingering stripes as well. He laps at the mound between Thanatos' entrance and his balls, nudging against the sensitive area and making the god of death want to howl._

_Thanatos is gasping, wringing the covers under his hands. His hips and back are practically undulating so that he can fuck himself upon his brother's mouth. Hypnos presses his tongue against the tight entrance over and over, all sloppy and wet kisses until there is a hint of give, until it's fluttering for him and Thanatos is writhing into his movements, desperate to be eaten out._

_Hypnos is holding him steady with such force that Thanatos can feel every mark from the sleep god's nails making their claim on his skin, leaving notches like tiny smiles. Thanatos' thighs are trembling, his toes curled in towards the arched soles of his feet. His length is hard and heavy between his legs._

_He's wound up so very tight at the core, like he's grown smaller in size, become a compact seed of pure sensation._

_He lets out a held breath, shuddering when Hypnos touches his aching length. Hypnos gets him slicked up with a generous handful of oil that's probably dripping right off him and onto the bed. Lewd, squelching sounds fill the air as Hypnos jerks his cock, squeezing his erection and playing with his balls through the glide of the slippery fluid. The way Hypnos milks him is casual, almost lazy. Hypnos continues to lick into Thanatos as he strokes his dick, tongue insistently darting in and out of his hole. And Thanatos groans, cries out,_ begs _. His pleasure is being held hostage, poised between the tip of Hypnos' tongue and the tight, slicked curl of the sleep god's fingers._

He wants to look at Hypnos, but he can't tear his eyes away from himself. There's a sheen upon his younger self's back, something like beads of liquid Darkness, seeping out from under his skin and making his body shimmer as it dissipates into the air. His long hair seems to glow white against his body. The sight is filthy and beautiful, terribly erotic. Arousal hums through his incorporeal form as he watches, yearning to return to a realm in which he can be touched. 

_“Please,” Thanatos implores. “Please!” His voice is torn from him, hoarse and needy. He's prepared to repeat this one word over and over in an endless litany, however long it takes to get Hypnos to fuck him to his release._

_Mercifully, his twin doesn't tease him._

_Thanatos moans when Hypnos loosens his grip around his cock and leaves off. The momentary sense of abandonment chills his limbs, but Hypnos is quick to return, rewarding him with the press of two fingertips against his moistened entrance. Thanatos sobs gratefully as Hypnos' fingers slide into him. He relaxes and clenches himself around them, savouring the stretch that prepares him for something larger. There's a place inside of him that he knows Hypnos is deliberately avoiding, a nexus of pleasure that will have him weeping and coming apart in no time at all. He doesn't need three fingers, but Hypnos always fills him up anyway, like he knows what Thanatos craves and is trying to soothe him through his fixation._

_“Hypnos, please. Please, I—_

There's one other thing. “Say it,” Thanatos whispers. 

_—want you.”_

Hypnos' eyes flash strangely, the sclera turning dark for an imperceptible moment, his pupils glowing green like ghostly embers. Then they melt back into gold, warm and sparkling, crystalline like nectar. 

Thanatos watches himself sob. His shoulders are shaking and his cheeks are damp with tears. “Don't stop!” He hears himself warn Hypnos. “Don't— you— _dare_ stop!” 

The effect should have been ruined by the breathless hiccup, the voice nasal from crying. It's not a pretty sight, but it doesn't look wrong. He looks wretched and exposed, yet enlivened by his display of unguarded desire. He looks gratified and relieved to have been broken down. The cries that are wrenched from him sound delirious, euphoric, rocked out from deep within him by Hypnos' thrusting fingers. 

The younger Thanatos is being spread wide open by the girth of Hypnos' knuckles, muffling his yells in the bedcovers, screaming for his twin's cock. 

_Thanatos whimpers when Hypnos withdraws his fingers, feels himself tighten around nothing, a different sort of emptiness in his gut._

_“I'm still here,” Hypnos says, as though sensing the presence of the void that threatens to swallow Thanatos up. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I've been here this whole time, remember?” He strokes his brother's back, grounding him with firm touches, rubbing slow circles along either side of his spine. He doesn't make Thanatos look at him, or get up. Thanatos opens his eyes, squinting at the sight of his own muscled arms and large hands like they belong to someone else. But the pattern on the quilted bedspread marks it as theirs, and he remembers where they are, who he is._

_“I'm fine,” he murmurs. “I want you, Hypnos.”_

_He shifts his legs to better prop himself up. His hips and thighs and shoulders burn from having kept himself in the same position for so long; Death Incarnate, with his corporeal body, is not spared from certain trifles after all. The aches pulsing through his muscles are sweet, and he will cherish them until they fade from him. He is a god, and sometimes, gods mend far too quickly._

_He chokes out a breathy _yes_ when he feels a familiar form nested against the cleft of his buttocks, oiled and gliding between his ass cheeks. Hypnos' cock is brushing against his tender, used entrance. He's been opened up enough for his brother to enter him without much resistance, with more than enough preparation to take him whole. The blunt head of Hypnos' cock slips right past the mellow soreness of his loosened passage, soothing the swollen rim with the promise of an exquisite fullness. His twin sinks himself into the silky, moistened sleeve of his body with a single stroke, and Thanatos spasms around him, groaning low in his throat. _

_Fresh tears form at the corners of his eyes as Hypnos begins to move. The loud sounds of slapping bodies fill the air; Thanatos' twin is smacking against him, colliding into him with a rhythmic fervour. Hypnos fucks hard into Thanatos upon each downstroke, the slide of his length gorgeous and velvety inside of his twin, plunging into him, ruthless and impossibly deep. Thanatos' chest feels raw on the inside from heaving out sob after sob, yet his mind has never been clearer. He's never been more pliant and wanting, eager to please._

_Hypnos is poised over him, shifting his body to push Thanatos' legs further apart with his own. Thanatos is nearly splayed flat upon their bed, hips hovering so low that he can feel his cock bouncing against the covers when Hypnos thrusts against him. The head of Hypnos’ erection is glancing off his prostate, the pressure unpredictable and intermittent, shooting blossoms of electrified sparks straight through him._

_Tears roll down his cheeks, slip into his mouth and leave the taste of salt on his tongue when he licks his lips. His chin is glossy with tears and spit. Hypnos grabs his long hair and pulls as though to tug his head back. He doesn't resist, a high-pitched whine pinched off in his throat._

_His eyes are squeezed shut, but soft light filters in through his eyelids._

_He thinks of somewhere unparalleled in loveliness. A vast field of poppies. A cosy cave._

_The world slams back into him on the slipstream of his reverie. A burst of pleasure punches a wail from his lungs, heat spreading throughout his loins. He's riding out the residual waves, awaiting the next one, when another pounds right into him._

_Another. And another. He lets his legs go slack, fighting the narrowing borders of his awareness that threaten to steal him from himself and reduce him to a faceless receptacle. He wants to remember who he belongs to._

_“Ah— Hypnos— Just like that!” He’s begged his twin to keep going countless times, and he’ll not hold back this time. The words fall from his lips again, for once utterly shameless and fawning._

_“Than,” Hypnos gasps. “I’m so close.”_

_“I'm— yours—” Thanatos chokes out. “Yours— always.”_

_The surges of heat crest dangerously, rising up and up before dragging him down—an ecstatic, spiralling freefall into the deepest, darkest hollow of his being where he waits to be taken. Claimed._

__Brother, love. Mine. _A voice filters through, layered with Darkness, resonating and synchronous with the Darkness inside of him. The honeyed tone thrums low in his chest like a song of praise, shooting down his spine, lazily unfurling in his groin—_

_And Thanatos thrashes under Hypnos as warm spurts of cum fill him up, feeling unbelievably wet between the legs and debauched._

_He's crying hard now, tears streaming down his face, sobs dragged out from him and robbing him of his breath, burning in his lungs. His fingers and toes are tingling madly, to the point that they feel numb. His jaw is slack against the damp covers; Hypnos is holding him down, the weight of his body braced against the base of Thanatos' neck. Hypnos is fucking himself through the aftershocks of his own orgasm into the mess he's made of his twin, heedless of his own climax and angling to hammer right into Thanatos' sweet spot. He drives his brother's hips against the bed, thrusting so hard that Thanatos can feel the slaps vibrate through his flesh, until the god of death can stand it no longer—He ruts into the covers and comes with Hypnos' name on his lips, ripped from him in a scream._

Thanatos watches his brother collapse atop his younger self and slowly pull out so that he can roll off him. Hypnos has never left him alone after they couple in this way. He stays and he fusses over Thanatos—returning to his talkative and cheerful self, but heavily downplayed so as not to obscure the pressing need for sobriety. Hypnos' voice is pitched lower and steadier than usual, providing a familiar backdrop of chatter. He brings the younger Thanatos back from the depths of his trance with quiet, silly observations that serve no purpose other than to ground his twin. 

From his vantage point, Thanatos knows that Hypnos' stroking hands will have some amount of added pressure to his touch, massaging his younger self through the tangled aftermath of his post-orgasmic fugue. 

He almost envies that younger Thanatos, who will be cleaned and coddled. Who will lie with Hypnos under the reassuring weight of the sleep god's cloak while having the ghostly traces of tears kissed from his cheeks. Who will bury his face into Hypnos' curls and inhale the floral, minty scent of him. Who will be held by Hypnos, fingers interlaced with his brother's, allowed to be as small and quiet as he needs to be. Until he begins to emerge from the ashes of his crying and wretched self, fragile and new like a creature beginning to free itself from its cocoon. 

The scene before him begins to shimmer and disappear. Thanatos drifts further from it, discovering that he is being taken away by the fluttering of his own wings—a god who had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or a butterfly that had dreamed of being a god.

—

Thanatos comes round with the sound of rustling foliage in his ears. He's lying flat on his back in Hypnos' glade, nestled into the poppies, a cool breeze flowing across him. He's sucking in deep breaths of air as if to steady himself, with no memory of having begun to do so consciously. The tranquil surroundings put him at ease. He feels calm and strangely energised. There is a dull ache in his pelvic area, but the soreness is fading rapidly. 

To his left, scores of bright blossoms loom over him, all afire from the ambient light passing through their translucent petals. They are vivid, crowding his periphery, blushing a defiant red like splotches of mortal blood. 

To his right, his twin sleeps. Thanatos sits up to look at him. 

Hypnos' eye mask is drawn down over his eyes. It gives him the very false and comical appearance of wakefulness. Set loose from the makeshift headband, his short waves caress his cheekbones, hiding his ears as they frame his face. The single wing he's been left with is unfolded into its true form, spread out against the flowers beneath him. Tiny snores escape from him in wheezes and whistles, his parted lips are moist with drool, freed from his usual grin. His mouth is slack, though set into something faintly reminiscent of a laugh. He looks guileless, yet inviting. His long limbs are carelessly splayed, his pleated skirts bunched up around his knees. 

Sleep Incarnate's slumbering pose is completely unpretentious—so different from how he looks taking his impertinent naps while on duty at the House of Hades, hunched up in his cloak. It's so easy for Thanatos to hate the way Hypnos shirks his responsibilities, but effortless to admire his natural state of repose. 

_This is what it truly means to be asleep,_ Thanatos thinks.

He finds his gaze lingering on a few places in particular where Hypnos' skin is bared—his shoulders, his slender calves, the tender area under his jaw—they stand out, amethyst-hued and stark against the sea of warm reds. Thanatos' interest stirs, glowing like a piece of fresh coal in a fireplace. 

The full recollection of Hypnos' suggestion eludes him, returning to him piecemeal. Thanatos will have to be patient. He is reminded of fireflies in a forest at dusk, how Hypnos and himself had used to chase them as they flitted in and out of sight among the trees. 

He stares at Hypnos' skirts, slung between his brother's legs like a red canopy. A pang of arousal shoots through his groin when he remembers what is under them; the phantom sensation of carved petals light upon his fingertips. A thrill of anticipation floods his senses when he remembers the specific manner in which Hypnos has requested to be roused from his self-induced slumber. Being Hypnos, he'd been firm about leaving the choice up to Thanatos; there are plenty of other, very innocuous ways to go about waking the god of sleep. 

Thanatos has heard stories of his twin. Thanatos has heard stories _from_ his twin. He is familiar with the idea that Hypnos has a wide range of predilections and has taken a variety of bedmates in order to sate his myriad cravings. 

Despite his knowledge, he had never asked to replicate any of those acts, nor had he ever been inspired to initiate something different whenever he is with Hypnos. He had believed that such experiences were out of his reach, that they were mere trivialities that would detract from the more straightforward sort of fulfilment that he usually seeks. And Hypnos has never given up on hinting to him that he is more than willing to facilitate, should Thanatos ever change his mind. 

Thanatos had invariably relied on Hypnos to lead, and his brother had been gradually chipping away his preconceived inhibitions, always ready to spring at the chance to tempt Thanatos into broadening their repertoire of activities. 

For once, Hypnos has succeeded. Quite thoroughly, too. 

By his brother's doing, Thanatos has finally proven to himself that a kernel of hedonistic sensuality does exist within him. He has to admit that he'd been selfish to hide this from Hypnos. Moreover, in hiding it from himself, he'd been left with very little room to consider reciprocating even a fraction of the wellspring of adoration that Hypnos has for him. 

Most galvanising to his newfound resolve is the certainty that he need not beg for forgiveness from Hypnos, who has known this all along, and has never rushed him into anything. He is sure that Hypnos would never blame him for having taken his time to arrive at this moment of clarity. 

He strips himself of his tunic, setting it aside after folding it up neatly. It's all him this time; no spectre of his own consciousness to guide him and give him its blessings. 

Every nerve in him comes alight with shame. 

He wants to cross his arms over his chest, close his eyes, and will every piece of clothing and armour back onto his body at once, summoned to him with an inside-out roar of spelled wind. Instead, he takes a long, measured breath. He peers down at his own chest, tracing the gentle slope of his pectoral muscles with his gaze. His nipples are pert and quite small. The expanse of skin over his sternum is a clearly defined valley. He wonders if Hypnos will enjoy the sight, albeit from a different angle. 

Thanatos casts a sidelong glance at Hypnos, but his brother is still fast asleep. 

The rise and fall of Hypnos' chest doesn't break its rhythm when Thanatos shimmies closer on his hands and knees. The god of death is cautious as he searches for the hem of Hypnos' skirts among the bunched-up fabric. When he finds what he's looking for, he tugs it to straighten out the chiton, so that it will be easier to lift up and over his twin's hips. The whole time, his gaze keeps flicking up to Hypnos' face. Hypnos' legs are heavy upon his skirts, and Thanatos is fearful that his brother will awaken as he adjusts them, despite the inexorable slowness of his movements. 

The god of sleep— 

—sleeps on. 

It is Thanatos' breath that keeps catching in his chest, though each incremental success emboldens him, steadies his timid hands. He hooks an arm under Hypnos' left knee, levering it upwards to spread his brother's legs apart while working the chiton over his thighs. Thanatos' jaw is clenched in concentration, but a hiss of desire whistles through his teeth when the fabric slides down onto Hypnos' hips. 

Hypnos is half-hard, but Thanatos cannot discern the source of his brother's arousal, whether it comes from his actions, or from somewhere within Sleep Incarnate's dreams. The base of the plug is just visible in the shadowed area beneath Hypnos' balls. The intricate design beckons to Thanatos, promising him a unique tactile experience and a solid grip. He’s only ever seen Hypnos use the toy—and it is a _toy,_ a silly plaything, isn't it? Ornamental. Impractical. Yet he's seen Hypnos reduce himself to an incoherent mess just by clenching himself around it. More than once, Hypnos has filled himself up, leaving the toy snug inside of his own body while he fucks Thanatos. 

_This thing has been inside him more times than I have when we are together,_ Thanatos thinks. _And that's… actually preposterous._ He's possessive enough to feel a touch of jealousy, but not serious or seemly enough right now to hold back the bout of silent laughter. He finds himself incapable of worrying about how his mirth has him bowed over, shaking against Hypnos. 

Him? Competing with an inanimate object? Would that it were a being of sentience instead of an extension of Hypnos' own lust. That way, at least, he'd be able to judge its capacity to reciprocate and actively serve his twin. 

In a fit of pique, he takes hold of the stylised flower, despite being unsure of what to do with it. He's holding in a breath that seems to percolate within his entire body, trapped and frenzied. Hypnos makes a series of small, sleepy noises. Thanatos freezes, dark ichor pounding in his chest. But Hypnos’ somniloquies taper off into quiet breathing. 

Thanatos tells himself that he’ll have Hypnos either way; there is absolutely nothing to lose. 

He loves Hypnos so very much, and he's _trying_. 

He applies pressure to the base of the plug, pushing the swell of its bulb even deeper into Hypnos. His brother shifts in his sleep. The leg that is hiked up upon the crook of Thanatos’ elbow twitches, then goes lax once more. Hypnos doesn’t stir when Thanatos begins to pull the plug out of him. 

The smooth object is gleaming with oil. It’s _huge_ , bigger than Thanatos remembers it—shaped narrow at the stem but slanted into something much larger at its girth. Thanatos eases it out until the thickest section is just about visible, stretching Hypnos wide. Hypnos’ entrance is sucked tight around the plug, greedy to swallow it back in. The resistance it puts up is fascinating. 

As though it were the most natural thing to do, Thanatos pushes it back in before drawing it out again, revealing all of it but the rounded tip. He fucks Hypnos with the toy, feeling his own cock stiffen as he watches it plunge in and out of his twin. Thanatos doesn't even notice that he's beginning to hyperventilate, so taken in by the control he has over Hypnos, the authority that Hypnos has gifted to him. Hypnos' breathing quickens just a notch, stutters and catches on the softest of moans; Thanatos can't tell if he's still unconscious or feigning sleep, hoping that it's the former, unwilling to give up the heady rush of power so soon. 

“It's okay, Hypnos,” he says in low, soothing tones. “Go back to sleep.”

His pace grows languid, his movements tender as though he were merely stroking his brother's hair and not pleasuring him in his sleep. And Hypnos is fully hard now. His length is thick and dusky-purple, angling away from his body and lying slanted towards one side from the tilt of how Thanatos has positioned him. A glistening string of precum trails from the slit of his cock to his belly. It tremors, quivers from minuscule convulsions, Hypnos' involuntary tensings. And Thanatos is _hooked_. He uses the toy to tease more slick from him, drop by shining drop. 

He can finally see what Hypnos enjoys about this. The teasing. His arousal _simmers_ within him, having been taught temperance. And yet, such moments, while not meant to be fleeting, are also not meant to last. 

Thanatos draws the plug out in its entirety, laying it down beside him. Hypnos’ entrance relaxes into a ring of tiny folds, having been loosened from its usual pucker. The god of sleep is still pliant, his exhalations still even. Thanatos wipes his hand on the bed of flowers. (Hypnos would do the same without a trace of remorse, and so he resolves to go about all this unapologetically.) His brother’s breaths are warm against his hand as he swipes his thumb along Hypnos’ open mouth, smudging a thread of drool away from the corner of his lips and the side of his chin. 

Without thinking, Thanatos slips his fingers between his twin’s teeth, seeking the silky wetness of his tongue. It’s lax under the curious press of Thanatos’ fingertips. How strange it feels to stroke against it when it’s so docile. When it isn’t flattened against Thanatos’ cock, trapping it against the roof of Hypnos’ mouth. When it isn’t guiding the god of death’s frantic thrusting towards the back of Hypnos’ throat. When it isn't doing lewd little dances, lashing against—

Thanatos withdraws his fingers and eases Hypnos’ bent leg back down onto the flowers, allowing his left arm and shoulder to recover from the strain. It frees him up to press a kiss to Hypnos’ parted lips. He doesn’t tarry. He's no longer fearful that Hypnos will jolt awake, simply afraid that his courage and momentum will leave him if he waits. 

Hypnos' skirts are smooth under Thanatos' knees as he settles between his twin’s legs. He hikes his brother's legs up and wiggles into position himself, propping Hypnos' thighs atop his own to cage them close to his hips with his arms. His cock dangles between their bodies, twitching a bit in response to his stare. 

_What would Hypnos do?_

Thanatos opens his mouth. The saliva he's let pool upon his tongue slides off and drips onto his dick. His thoughts are clouded over with lust, duly obscuring any reservations he might have had. Sleep Incarnate seems to sigh as Thanatos pushes into him—letting out a particularly breathy exhalation when the head of Thanatos' cock breaches his prepared entrance. Thanatos has no way to know without checking if his brother's eyelids remain obediently shut, or if they are struggling to flutter open under his mask. Hypnos' limbs are still heavy and limp, the muscles in his neck and his jaw slack, relaxed. 

The mask stares at Thanatos with its embroidered purple irises, impossibly round and devoid of pupils. Taunting him. Thanatos gazes back, too far gone to care about being watched. 

_I'm going to pleasure him into wakefulness, you…! You shall see!_

He starts moving, leading with a fluid stroke that has him sinking himself to the root, pressed so snugly to Hypnos that his pubis is resting against his twin’s body. It would be simple for Thanatos to lose himself in single-minded pursuit of his own release. But this isn't about himself.

—

Hypnos would never presume to know exactly how Primordial Chaos, his grand-forebear, had first emerged from the void. But in his idle musings, waking up seems to come _pretty_ darn close to what he imagines it would've been like. Hypnos had been born to assume dominion over sleep, hadn't he? What is sleep but a temporary journey into nothingness, the void in miniature? And what is sleep without waking, waking without the re-creation of oneself upon regaining consciousness?

First, there is always emptiness. Then an inkling of cognizance—a flicker, a whisper, a glimmer—like a voidskate swiftly flashing past, a glimpse of the rippling cosmos along the underside of its fins. And then it all _implodes,_ the rest of reality crashing back in to fill the vacuum with a resounding cacophony, or something. Results may vary. 

This time, it hits him all at once. 

The dark behind his eye mask. The huffing of his own breath, its rate escalating. An insistent rocking motion against his body. Slow, almost mournful, like a dirge. Being filled. The coil of arousal in his loins. Wound up tight. His skirts, silky under his back, buttocks, and thighs. He's sliding against them— 

—something is _pistoning_ into him. Thick and slick. Glorious. The scent of poppies. That lonely wing, fluttering close to his right ear. Beating against the ground like a fish out of water. Burnt wood and nectar on his tongue. The familiar thrumming of his twin’s presence. Like a hand brushed over the strings of a lyre. The need to banish the lethargy from his limbs. Let a yawn shiver into his lungs. Come alive again. 

His mouth opens wide to suck in a gasp that will fill him up with sweet air, nourish the ichor in his veins and urge his inscrutable insides to pump faster, faster—

He stretches, too. More shuddering breaths that strain against his ribs as his lungs are filled. His shoulders are tingling. His arching spine shifts his hips. The rhythm has faltered but the movements do not cease. A sound slips from him—a very gratuitous _mmnnhhhhhnnnn_ that vibrates in his chest as he raises his arms above his head to flex them. A large hand grabs at his wrists and slams them both down into the flowers, laid crosswise, one trapped below the other. Hypnos bites on his own lower lip, giddy with excitement. His entire body feels flushed, heated with anticipation. 

He is thin-skinned and fine-boned but he's not going to _break_. He giggles. A smile curves his lips. 

“Awhh Than,” he purrs, “you've made me so happy!”

Teeth scrape against his throat in answer, lips and tongue sucking hard at the soft skin. His wrists are freed, only to be caught once again and held down on either side of his body, palms facing up, shackled to the ground by a firm grip. Thanatos is being surprisingly aggressive with him, which suits Hypnos just fine. His twin is strong but rough around the edges, inexperienced and therefore sensitive to goading, which gives him a naivete that Hypnos intends to exploit and to savour. 

Hypnos strains against Thanatos' hands, which only curl tighter around his wrists. The edge of a pointed tooth nicks his already tender, bruising flesh. He yelps, tears stinging his eyes, and _gods,_ he might just come from this. Being pinned. Having his neck ravished. Body near folded in two while fucked at this torturous, glacial pace. Blindfolded by his own mask. The thought is humiliating, which just makes his cock twitch. Deprived of his sight, Hypnos anchors each sharp sensation to his lust. He jerks and he moans, panting and struggling ineffectually. His twin's slow thrusts are made erratic by his writhing. Hypnos clings to the jagged shards of pain, relishing them as adornments for his bared throat. His legs wrap around his brother's hips like a vise, clamping their bodies together so tight that Thanatos is forced to stop moving. 

Hypnos licks his lips. “I want to look at you,” he says. 

A sliver of light pierces the darkness and he flinches. It's too bright, almost lacerating. His pupils are blown wide with desire, his vision painted over with a harsh glare. The weight on his wrists lets up, and he reflexively stretches his fingers. His breaths are suddenly loud, ragged in his throat. He tugs a hand free, grasps the one belonging to Thanatos, in the midst of pushing his mask up. Brings his brother's fingers to his mouth and sucks them in, flicks his tongue against the pads, watching Thanatos' expression change from under the skewed angle of his mask. 

Golden eyes swim into focus as he adjusts to the sudden illumination. The silvery white of his brother's hair is lit from behind, a halo around Thanatos' face. The expanse of bare skin from his collarbones to his chest, well-defined planes all the way down to his hips—he looks like a dream. But in spite of his earlier roughness, Thanatos also looks… lost. The god of death licks his lips. His eyes plead with Hypnos, begging for guidance. For reassurance. 

“Hey—pull out for now. Not used to this, huh.” Hypnos says. He gives Thanatos' fingers one last nip and lets his hand go. “You're doing so well, Than.” Brushing a thumb over his cheek, the crease at the centre of his brow. 

“I'm afraid of hurting you too much, Hypnos. I don't want to stop, but, brother, I—”

“You won't. You can't.” Hypnos reaches for the loops attached to his eye mask and tugs them loose, letting that layer of an artificial gaze slip to the ground beside his head. 

Thanatos' hesitation would be prudent had they both been mortals instead of deathless chthonic deities. Regardless, Hypnos doesn't want to belittle his fear; he understands the sentiment of the realm-shattering wrath that would pour forth from him should his twin ever get grievously hurt, even if he'd been the one to inflict it. Kudos to the Fates for bestowing a hankering for pain upon him alone. Thanatos constantly tests the boundaries of his mental resilience, while Hypnos has developed a taste for unkind expressions of sensuality. At least Zagreus might be able to relate to this side of him. 

“You won't,” Hypnos repeats. “If you're that—” He swallows the word _afraid_ , “—concerned for me, then I'll let you know if it's too much, 'kay? I'll name these flowers here, the ones right where we are. I'll yell that name out loud. I'll even recite whole recipes of what I can make from them. And then you'll know I'm asking you to stop. And if you hear it, you will stop. It's not a novel practice—it's common, especially among those who don't heal fast or live more than once.” 

“I will listen out for that.”

“Feeling better about it now?” Hypnos asks. _Oh, Than. Dear old brother. I'd put you to sleep first if I'd cause to use it,_ he thinks. 

Thanatos nods. The ugly, clotted lump of worries has begun to dissolve. The canvas of Hypnos' throat is brushed with mauve and indigo, dark olive, cool browns—his doing—the abstract beauty of which he is starting to grasp. There is something quite earthy and visceral in those colours, gorgeous and hidden things—rare blossoms, gills and ears of fungi in the dark undergrowth. The doubt is sloughing off, peeling away from him like the skin of a shedding serpent. He is the same god, still Death Incarnate, but he is changing, growing out of himself. 

His brother brings him back with a hand flat upon his chest, clearly enjoying the opportunity to indulge in his unclothed body. Sleep Incarnate feasts with his eyes and with his touch, Hypnos' gaze calling forth every tendril of desire in Thanatos' veins to seize hold of his senses. Thanatos is drawn tight like a bowstring, his cock throbbing with need. 

Hypnos is mischievous, making a show out of looking thoughtful and nibbling gently on his forefinger as he muses aloud. “Say! Going at it real hard could come in handy if you're planning on bedding the prince. As compelling as it is to be all gentle and _proper_ with him, I do think he enjoys a bit of the—” He makes the sound of a whip crack with his mouth. 

It riles Thanatos up, because of course it does. His eyes flash dangerously, admiring as ever of Hypnos' audacity. He's spiteful and aroused; Hypnos' laughter rankles him, and Thanatos is definitely feeling _provoked._

“You're angry at me?” Hypnos seems far too pleased with himself. “You've been holding it in, haven't you! If you're going to let it out now, better make it _good_.”

Thanatos finds himself wanting to gag his brother—settles for a bruising kiss, intent on stuffing Hypnos' mouth full of tongue to shut him up. Hypnos doesn't yield to him easily. He refuses to part his lips, which is exactly the point. Thanatos will _make_ him, grabbing his chin to pry his mouth open and subject him to forceful strokes of his tongue. The rough treatment pulls mewl after mewl from Hypnos until a throaty moan shudders through his entire body and tempers his defiance. The sleep god is delighted; bracing his arms against Thanatos' weight above him as if to push him away, giggling when his twin bears down on him, pinning him with his broad chest. 

And then Thanatos moves lower, layering more harsh kisses atop the dark bruises on Hypnos' neck, sucking them back into full bloom before they can fade.

He's drunk on Hypnos' cries, their musicality. Hypnos _claws_ at his back and shoulders. His brother's nails are kept neat and short, but Hypnos clutches so hard that it feels like furrows being raked into his skin. The pain melds into his flesh like an oath sworn upon the Styx, bound to the frantic beating of his pulse. Thanatos ignores the sound of snapping seams, threads stretched to their limit, breaking as he fists his hands into the front of Hypnos' chiton to drag him upright. 

Somehow, they're kneeling before one another, like a pair of betrothed lovers. The illusion of symmetry is broken when Thanatos pulls Hypnos towards him with a hand against the nape of his neck, thumb pressing into the side of his throat where he can feel the palpitations of his twin's vitality. He squeezes once, lightly, and Hypnos keens into his touch. His twin grabs his hand and shifts it until the heel of his palm is molded against the bump of Hypnos' larynx, like Hypnos is daring him to crush it. 

Thanatos wouldn't—

—but he toys with the possibility, stringing the threat along, weaving it into the sting of lovebites and fierce kisses. 

His fingers work slow circles into the vulnerable stretch of Hypnos' throat, poised as if he could tighten his grasp at any moment to choke the air from his twin's lungs, press down hard enough to stutter the flow of ichor in his veins. Hypnos is whimpering, and Thanatos knows there's no need to go further. The play of this light pressure is enough to make his brother’s eyes glaze over with tender submission. Hypnos makes such desperate noises—awful and harsh as if he's pleading, breathing his last—a wretchedness fraught with erotic undercurrents. A faint smile plucks at Hypnos' lips, grateful and beatific. The look on his face numbs Thanatos' fear that he's put his brother in danger. 

Thanatos has heard many a death rattle in the course of his career, and he doesn’t want to think about why Hypnos gets off on pretending he might _die_. It's enough that Hypnos likes it. And Thanatos can't deny that he enjoys how his twin goes lax and shivers against him. He holds Hypnos steady by his upper arms and sinks his teeth into the sleep god's shoulder, clamping down hard until Hypnos is crying out and twisting in his grasp. There's no mention of _poppies_ —so Thanatos does it again, overlaying the jagged little rings made by his teeth with more of the same. He moves along the curve of Hypnos' shoulder, up the side of his neck. He bites Hypnos with a surge of frenzied desire buzzing in his chest, without even stopping to soothe the bruised flesh. He bites like he's avenging the shadow of his former, more timid self. There's a tangy scent upon his tongue that could be nectar, or ichor, but he can't bring himself to care. 

Hypnos is rocking his hips, stroking himself through his skirts. The outline of his clothed length pushes against his chiton, proud and defiant in his hand. His movements jostle against his brother's body, and Thanatos grips him tight around his forearms to restrain him. Thanatos is irked, and he knows full well that Hypnos has won. _“Do you want me to tie you up?”_ He hisses. The threat is an empty one, rising up from his newly awakened hunger to play at dominance. 

Hypnos doesn't even recoil. He lifts his hands away from his chiton in surrender, laughing softly. “Check my pockets,” he coos.

Thanatos does. The girdle of his belt is in one of them, that pretty length of rope, plain and without its ornamental buckle. There's a corked vial of oil in there as well. Hypnos just grins at his brother's discoveries, like he'd planned this all along. 

Like he'd planned to have his hands bound in front of him, braced upon Thanatos' chest as he lowers himself onto his brother's oiled cock. Thanatos guides him with one hand on a hip, under his skirts. The other hand is busy fingering his own length, lightly brushing against the rim of Hypnos' entrance, feeling it stretch out around him. He's hungry to experience every aspect of being taken in deep, but Hypnos' chiton hides their congress. Somehow, veiling the act makes it seem even more lewd. Thanatos _feels_ himself bottom out—having to retract his hand from under Hypnos so they can share a moment of being pressed close, skin to skin—before Hypnos begins to move. 

It occurs to Thanatos that the notion of his ever having been in control could very well have been a conceit. 

Hypnos is _using_ him, and Thanatos wouldn't have it any other way. 

He's being milked by the cadenced stroking of his brother's tight heat, Hypnos slowly grinding down onto his hips with remarkable finesse. Hypnos' hands are secured at the wrists, and his fingers are splayed out along Thanatos' collarbones, with the heels of his palms firm against Death Incarnate's chest. The sleep god's eyes have fallen shut. He plays at recovering his dignity, teeth worrying away at his lower lip as if trying to keep his mouth closed, unsuccessfully. Drawn-out moans spill forth from his parted lips, and every single one reverberates through Thanatos. 

Hypnos is obviously chasing his own gratification; whatever pleasure Thanatos receives is peripheral, mere happenstance. But Thanatos remembers, almost vindictively, that— _He can't touch himself_ —and takes hold of his twin's hips to drive himself _up_ , meeting Hypnos at the crest of an oncoming downwards stroke. 

It nearly unseats Hypnos, sending a wave of pleasure hurtling through him, making him feel quite boneless. 

“Than, _please!_ ” He wails in a high whine, though Thanatos has not stopped. Hypnos had been so entranced, lulled into the lackadaisical rhythm of sliding his brother’s length in and out of himself—that the sudden change in both intensity and pace shatters the comfort he'd been taking in it. Thanatos fucks up into him, the soles of his feet planted into the ground to lend a violent strength to his thrusts. Hypnos is rocked forwards by his snapping hips, held in place by Thanatos' punishing grip. He's almost crouching atop his brother, like a mortal prostrating before an altar. His thighs shudder and shiver. He lets Thanatos take over, so ready to fall limp against his twin and—

His bound hands are an obstacle. The rope twines partway up his forearms, drawing his elbows in close to his body. There's no maneuvering into his ideal position. He wants to lean down and kiss Thanatos, but can’t. Somehow, this hurts more than anything else. Hot tears of frustration prick at his eyes when he realises that he's denied himself this. The wrathful, silent rage from having been brought to tears makes him more shameless, and he is determined to eke out every last drop of distress—his spiteful indulgence in his own discomfort. He claws at his brother's chest, keening and begging. He's loud. He loves it. He pleads with Thanatos to _yes, that's it, I— nnhh, yes, nh!_

Thanatos doesn't smile, but his eyes narrow and the gold of his irises glint like sunlight reflected off a blade. “Hypnos,” he says, voice rough with desire, “tell me exactly what you want.”

“Than— Than—! I want—to come—” Hypnos’ dick is bouncing against Thanatos' belly, the wet slapping of flesh muffled beneath fabric. His red skirts billow around the movements of his thighs, sending up wave after mesmerising wave. He's gasping, made needy by Thanatos pounding against his walls, massaging thick strokes into his prostate with each collision. It's merciless; far better than the gradual, rolling licks of headiness he gets from nectar. He feels warm all over, the bite marks on his neck and his shoulders radiating an impossible heat. The sensation of teeth sinking into his flesh is still ripe in his memory—he dares to dream up more—his brother marking his thighs, biting his hips, filling him with his fingers, making him scream—

His pleasure hits a peak. 

The roaring crescendo of his climax jolts through every nerve in his body. He's coming under his skirts, his untouched cock jerking and twitching as he stains his chiton, spills over Thanatos' belly. His thighs are shaking, his midsection aches from the strain of his posture. He's gone so, so lax, but he pants and moans as he tightens himself around Thanatos, voice _breaking_ on his cries—“Oh, oh, please, Than— _fill me up—!_ ”—doesn't stop until he feels the pulsing of his brother's cock from root to stem, until he feels those coveted gushes of cum shoot deep into him.

—

Thanatos won't let himself stay for long. He despises himself a little, about to leave Hypnos on his own after a quick dip in the springs at the back of the cave. 

Even now, completely clothed, the memory of Hypnos' body held snug against his bare chest clings to him. Hypnos, pliant and sleepy, _glowing_ with contentment as Thanatos scooped him up from the poppies. His hands drawn up tight to his body as though cradling a baby bird against his chest, his legs bent and dangling over the crook of Thanatos' arms. Hypnos in his ripped chiton, pockets weighed down with the miscellany from their romp in the field. Thanatos had taken a moment to admire the scenery, putting aside the thought that his gaze must have been softened by the intensity of their coupling. At the springs, he'd carefully stripped his brother and bathed him, and Hypnos had nearly fallen asleep in the water. 

“You know, you should spend more time with Zagreus,” he tells Hypnos. “He'll be good for you, I can tell. He's hard-headed and hot-blooded. It's what you need. What you… want.” The words are thick in his mouth. He is reluctant to say them, but they are necessary. The prince wears his heart pinned upon his breast, sharing himself with a naked honesty that Thanatos still quails from. Zagreus is the warmth of the sun that wakes flowers from their buds. 

“Huh! Than! You should spend more time with me!” Hypnos retorts. “And Zagreus. No reason why you shouldn't be part of it.” He yawns, curling up in his cloak upon one of his many chaises. Thanatos has tucked the edges under him and he looks like a—that thing which mortals conjure from wheat, for sustenance—a loaf of bread. 

“Really…” Thanatos cards his fingers through his brother's hair. Hypnos whines at the touch, and phantom whispers of arousal surge through Thanatos. He remembers calling out to Hypnos in his dream— _I want you_ —and perhaps he can be the cool soil to Zagreus' warm sun. Between them both, Hypnos can flourish. “Maybe we should ask Zagreus if that's what _he_ wants,” he says. His ears go hot at the mention of the prince, who has apparently expressed a desire to _know_ him. He imagines how Zagreus' mouth will fit against his. If they could just skip the awkward talk, breeze past his repressed affection, and perhaps he could wrap his lips around Zagreus' cock to show him that he likes him. 

“ _You_ ask him. You're the older brother, Than.”

“Am I, now!” Thanatos bristles. “I'm only older when it's convenient for you to foist some undesirable task on me.”

“Ha! Uh-oh!” Hypnos snickers and retreats even further into his cloak, his hair seeming to merge with the fluffy white trimmings. His voice is muffled by the quilting, but he’s practically hollering to compensate, taking care to enunciate each word with excruciating clarity. “Did you just describe Zag as _undesirable?_ 'Cos that's what I'm hearing!”

“Hypnos…! You know that's not what I—” The admonition is all hot air, not a trace of flames. “I have to go. I'm about to be late.”

Hypnos pokes his head out again. “A whole lot of mortals are about to be _late_ , too! Lucky them! Go get 'em, brother!”

Thanatos groans. “You work hard, all right? Do not think I will go easy on you if I catch you shirking again. Please, Hypnos, just _tolerate_ this assignment and perhaps we shall see each other more often when the need to mobilise your services at the House becomes less pertinent. Before that time comes, we have our obligations. I don’t want to see you suffer more than is necessary. Think on that. Perhaps understanding will not come to you right away, but think on it all the same.” 

And he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Yes, that was a reference to _Zhuangzi_ 's Butterfly Dream.


End file.
